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A Double Story. 

By GEORGE MacDONALD. 


David C. Cook Publishing Company, Elgin, 111., and 36 Washington St., Chicago. 


CHAPTER I. 

HERE was a certain 
country where things 
used to go rather 
oddk; . For instance, 
you could never tell 
whether it was going 
to rain or hail, or 
whether or not the milk was going to turn 
sour. 

In strict accordance with the peculiar 
nature of this country of uncertainties, it 
came to pass one day that, in the midst of 
a shower of rain that might well be called 
golden, seeing the sun, shining as it fell, 
turned all its drops into molten topazes, 
and every drop was good for a grain of 
golden corn, or a yellow cowslip, or a but- 
tercup, or a dandelion at least, — while 
this splendid rain was falling, I say, with 
a musical patter upon the great leaves of 
the horse-chestnuts, which hung like 
Vandyke collars about the necks of the 
creamy, red-spotted blossoms, and on the 
leaves of the sycamores, looking as if they 
had blood in their veins, and on a multi- 
tude of flowers, of which some stood up 


and boldly held out their cups to catch 
their share, while others cowered down 
laughing under the soft, patting blows of 
the heavy, warm drops — while this lovely 
rain was washing all the air clean from 
the motes, and the bad odors, and the 
poison seeds that had escaped from their 
prisons during the long drought — while 
it fell, splashing and sparkling, with a 
hum, and a rush, and a soft clashing — but 
stop — I am stealing, I find, and not that 
only, but with clumsy hands spoiling what 
I steal: 

“ O Rain, with your dull twofold sound, 

The clash hard by, the murmur all around;” 

— there! take it, Mr. Coleridge — while, as 
I was saying, the lovely little rivers, 
whose fountains are the clouds, and which 
cut their own channels through the air, 
and make sweet noises rubbing against 
their banks as they hurry down and down, 
until at length they are pulled up, on a 
sudden, with a musical plash, in the very 
heart of an odorous flower that first gasps 
and then sighs up a blissful scent, or on 
the bald head of a stone that never says 
thank you; while the very sheep felt it 
blessing them, though it could never 



2 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


reach their skins through the depth of 
their long wool, and the veriest hedgehog 
— I mean the one with the longest spikes 
— came and spiked himself out to impale 
as many drops as he could; while the rain 
was thus falling, and the leaves, and the 
flowers, and the sheep, and the cattle, and 
the hedgehog were all busily receiving the 
golden rain, something happened. It was 
not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor 
a coronation, but something more import- 
ant than all those put together: a baby 
girl was born — and her father was a king, 
and her mother was a queen, and her 
uncles and aunts were princes and prin- 
cesses, and her first cousins were dukes 
and duchesses, and not one of her second 
cousins was less than a marquis or 
marchioness, or of her third cousins less 
than an earl or countess, and below a 
countess they did not care to count. So 
the little girl was Somebody; and yet for 
all that, strange to say, the first thing she 
did was to cry! I told you it was a 
strange country. 

As she grew up everybody about her 
did his best to convince her that she was 
Somebody, <and the girl herself was so 
easily persuaded of it that she quite for- 
got that anybody had ever told her so, 
and took it for a fundamental, innate, 
primary, first-born, self-evident, necessary, 
and incontrovertible idea and principle 
that she was Somebody. And far be it 
from me to deny it! I will even go so far 
as to assert that in this odd country there 


was a huge number of Somebodies. In- 
deed, it was one of its oddities that every 
boy and girl in it was rather too ready to 
think he or she was Somebody; and the 
worst of it was that the princess never 
thought of there being more than one 
Somebody — and that was herself. 

Far away to the north, in the same 
country, on the side of a bleak hill, where 
horse-chestnut or sycamore was never 
seen, where were no meadows rich with 
buttercups, only steep, rough, breezy 
slopes, covered with dry, prickly furze and 
its flowers of red gold, or moister, softer 
broom with its flowers of yellow gold, and 
great sweeps of purple heather, mixed 
with bilberries, and crowberries, and cran- 
berries — no, I am all wrong — there was 
nothing out yet but a few furze blossoms; 
the rest were all waiting behind their 
doors till they were called; and no full, 
slow-gliding river with meadow-sweet 
along its oozy banks, only a little brook 
here and there, that dashed past without 
a moment to say, u How do you do?” — 
there — would you believe it? — while the 
same cloud that was drooping down 
golden rain all about the queen’s new 
baby, was dashing huge, fierce handfuls 
of hail upon the hills, with such force 
that they flew spinning off the rocks and 
stones, went burrowing in the sheep’s 
wool, stung the cheeks and chin of the 
shepherd with their sharp, spiteful little 
blows, and made his dog wink and whine 
as they bounded off his hard, wise head 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


3 



Only steep, rough, breezy slopes. — See page 2, 


and long, sagacious nose; only, when they 
dropped plump down the chimney, and 
fell hissing in the little fire, they caught 
it then, for the clever little fire soon sent 


that was less than a 
grocer, and they did. 
not count farther. 

And yet, would you 
believe it? she, too, cried the very first 
thing! It was an odd country! And 
what is still more surprising, the shep- 
herd and shepherdess, and the dairy 


them up the chimney again, a 
good deal swollen, and harmless 
enough for a while — there! what 
do you think? — among the hail- 
stones, and the heather, and the 
cold mountain air, another little 
girl was born, whom the shepherd 
her father, and the shepherdess 
her mother, and a good many of 
her kindred, too, thought Some- 
body. She had not an uncle or 
an aunt that was less 
than a shepherd or 
a dairy maid, not a 
cousin that was less 
than a farm laborer, 
not a second cousin 


4 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


maids, and the laborers, were not a bit 
wiser than the king and the queen, and 
the dukes, and the marquises, and the 
earls, for they, too, one and all, so con- 
stantly taught the little woman that she 
was Somebody, that she also forgot that 
there were a great many more Somebodies 
besides herself in the world. 

It was, indeed, a peculiar country — 
very different from ours — so different 
that my reader must not be too much sur- 
prised when I add the amazing fact that 
most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoy- 
ing the things they had, were always want- 
ing the things they had not, often even 
the things it was least likely they ever 
could have. The grown men and women 
being like this, there is no reason to be 
further astonished that the Princess Rosa- 
mond — the name her parents gave her, 
because it means Rose of the World — 
should grow up like them, wanting every- 
thing she could and everything she could 
not have. The things she could have were 
a great many too many, for her foolish 
parents always gave her what they could; 
but still there remained a few things they 
could not give her, for they were only a 
common king and queen. They could 
and did give her a lighted candle when she 
cried for it, and managed by much care 
that she should not burn her fingers or set 
her frock on fire; but when she cried for 
the moon, that they could not give her. 
They did the worst thing possible instead, 
however, for they pretended to do what 


they could not — they got her a thin disc 
of brilliantly polished silver, as near the 
size of the moon as they could agree upon, 
and for a time she was delighted. 

But, unfortunately, one evening she 
made the discovery that her moon was a 
little peculiar, inasmuch as it could not 
shine in the dark. Her nurse happened 
to snuff out the candles as she was play- 
ing with it, and instantly came a shriek of 
rage, for her moon had vanished. Pres- 
ently, through the opening of the cur- 
tains, she caught sight of the real moon, 
far away in the sky, and shining quite 
calmly, as if she had been there all the 
time; and her rage increased to such a 
degree that if it had not passed off in a fit, 
I do not know what might have come of 
it. 

As she grew up it was still the same — 
with this difference: that not only must 
she have everything, but she got tired of 
everything almost as soon as she had it. 
There was an accumulation of things in 
her nursery, and school-room, and bed- 
room, that was perfectly appalling. Her 
mother’s wardrobes were almost useless to 
her, so packed were they with things of 
which she never took any notice. When 
she was five years old, they gave her a 
splendid gold repeater, so close set with 
diamonds and rubies that the back was 
just one crust of gems; in one of her little 
tempers, as she called her hideously ugly 
rages, she dashed it against the back of 
the chimney, after which it never gave a 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


5 


single tick, and some of the diamonds 
went to the ash-pit. As she grew older 
still, she became fond of animals, not in 
a way that brought them much pleasure 
or herself much satisfaction. When 
angry she would beat them and try to pull 
them to pieces, and as soon as she became 
a little used to them would neglect them 
altogether. Then, if they could, they 
would run away, and she was furious. 
Some white mice, which she had ceased 
feeding altogether, did so, and soon the 
palace was swarming with white mice. 
Their red eyes might be seen glowing, and 
their white skins gleaming, in every dark 
corner; but when it came to the king’s 
finding a nest of them in his second best 
crown, he was angry, and ordered them to 
be drowned. The princess heard of it, 
however, and raised such a clamor that 
they were left until they should run away 
of themselves, and the poor king had to 
wear his best crown every day until then. 
Nothing that was the princess’ property, 
whether she cared for it or not, was to be 
meddled with. 

Of course, as she grew, she grew worse, 
for she never tried to grow better. She 
became more and more peevish and fretful 
every day — dissatisfied not only with what 
she had, but with all that was around her, 
and constantly wishing things in general 
to be different. She found fault with 
everything and everybody and all that 
happened, and grew more and more dis- 
agreeable to every one who had to do with 


her. At last, when she had nearly killed 
her nurse, and had all but succeeded in 
hanging herself, and was miserable from 
morning to night, her parents thought it 
time to do something. 

A long way from the palace, in the 
heart of a deep wood of pine trees, lived a 
wise woman. In some countries she would 
have been called a witch, but that would 
have been a mistake, for she never did 
anything wicked, and had more power 
than any witch could have. As her fame 
was spread through all the country, 
the king heard of her, and, thinking she 
might, perhaps, be able to suggest some- 
thing, sent for her. In the dead of the 
night, lest the princess should know it, 
the king’s messenger brought into the pal- 
ace a tall woman, muffled from head to 
foot in a cloak of black cloth. In the 
presence of both their majesties, the king, 
to do her honor, requested her to sit; but 
she declined and stood waiting to hear 
what they had to say. Nor had she to 
wait long, for almost instantly they began 
to tell her the dreadful trouble they were 
in with their only child — first the king 
talking, then the queen interposing with 
some yet more dreadful fact, and at times 
both -letting out a torrent of words to- 
gether, so anxious were they to show the 
wise woman that their perplexity was real, 
and their daughter a very terrible one. 
For a long while there appeared no sign 
of approaching pause. But the wise 
woman stood patiently folded in her black 


6 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


cloak, and listened without word or mo- 
tion. At length silence fell, for they had 
talked themselves tired, and could not 
think of anything more to add to the list 
of their child’s enormities. 

After a minute, the wise woman un- 
folded her arms, and her cloak dropping 
open in front, disclosed a garment made of 
strange stuff, which an old poet who knew 
her so well has thus described: 

“ All lily white, without spot or pride, 

That seemed like silke and silver woven neare; 
But neither silke nor silver therein did appeare.” 

“ How very badly you have treated 
her!” said the wise woman. “Poor 
child!” 

“What! treated her badly!” gasped the 
king. 

“ She is a very wicked child,” said the 
queen; and both glared with indignation. 

“ Yes, indeed,” returned the wise 
woman; “ she is very naughty indeed, and 
that she must be made to feel. But it is 
half your fault, too.” 

“What!” stammered the king, “ haven’t 
we given her every mortal thing she 
wanted?” 

“ Surely,” said the wise woman. “What 
else could have all but killed her? You 
ihould have given her a few things of the 
other sort. But you are too dull to under- 
stand me.” 

“ You are very polite!” remarked the 
king, with royal sarcasm on his thin, 
straight lips. 

The wise woman made no answer be- 


yond a deep sigh, and the king and 
queen sat silent also in their anger, glar- 
ing at the wise woman. The silence lasted 
again for a minute, and then the wise 
woman folded her cloak around her, and 
her shining garment vanished like the 
moon when a great cloud comes over her. 
Yet another minute passed, and the si- 
lence endured, for the smouldering wrath 
of the king and queen choked the chan- 
nels of their speech. Then the wise 
woman turned her back on them and so 
stood. At this the rage of the king broke 
forth, and he cried to the queen, stammer- 
ing in his fierceness: 

“How should such an old hag as that 
teach Rosamond good manners! She 
knows nothing of them herself! Look 
how she stands! Actually with her back 
to us!” 

At the word the wise woman walked 
from the room. The great folding doors 
fell to behind her, and the same moment 
the king and queen were quarreling like 
apes as to which of them was to blame fo? 
her departure. Before their altercation 
was over — for it lasted till the early 
morning — in rushed Rosamond, clutch- 
ing in her hands a poor little white rabbit 
of which she was very fond, and from 
which, only because it would not come to 
her when she called it, she was pulling 
handsful of fur in the attempt to tear the 
squealing, pink-eared, red-eyed thing to 
pieces. 

“Rosa! Rosamond!” cried the queen. 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


7 


whereupon Rosamond threw the rabbit in 
her mother’s face. The king started up 
in a fury and ran to seize her. She 
darted shrieking from the room. The 
king rushed after her, but, to his amaze- 
ment, she was nowhere to be seen; the 
huge hall was empty. No, just outside 
the door, close to the threshold, with her 
back to it, sat the figure of the wise 
woman muffled in her dark cloak, with 
her head bowed over her knees. As the 
king stood looking at her, she rose slowly, 
crossed the hall, and walked away down 
the marble staircase. The king called to 
her, but she never turned her head or gave 
the least sign that she heard him. So 
quietly did she pass down the wide marble 
stair that the king was all but persuaded 
he had seen only a shadow gliding across 
the white steps. 

For the princess, she was nowhere to be 
found. The queen went into hysterics 
and the rabbit ran away. The king sent 
out messages in every direction, but in 
vain. 

In a short time the palace was quiet — 
as quiet as it used to be before the prin- 
cess was born. The king and queen cried 
a little now and then, for the hearts of 
parents were in that country strangely 
fashioned; and yet I am afraid the first 
movement of those very hearts would 
have been a jump of terror if the ears 
above them had heard the voice of Rosa- 
mond in one of the corridors. As for the 
rest of the household, they could not have 


made up a single tear among them. They 
thought, whatever it might be for the 
princess, it was for every one else the best 
thing that could have happened; and as to 
what had become of her, if their heads 
were puzzled, their hearts took no inter- 
est in the question. The Lord Chan- 
cellor alone had an idea about it, but he 
was far too wise to utter it. 



CHAPTER II. 

HE fact, as is plain, 
was that the princess 
had disappeared in 
the folds of the wise 
woman’s cloak. 
When she rushed 
from the room, the wise woman caught 
her to her bosom and flung the black gar- 
ment around her. The princess struggled 
wildly, for she was in fierce terror, and 
screamed as loud as choking fright would 
permit her; but her father, standing in 
the door, and looking down upon the 
wise woman, saw never a movement of the 
cloak, so tight was she held by her captor. 
He was indeed aware of a most angry cry- 
ing, which reminded him of his daughter, 
but it sounded to him so far away that he 
took it for the passion of some child in 
the street, outside the palace gates. 
Hence, unchallenged, the wise woman 
carried the princess down the marble 


8 


A DOUBLE STORY 


stairs, out at the palace door, down a great 
flight of steps outside, across a paved 
court, through the brazen gates, along 
half-roused streets where people were 
opening their shops, through the huge 
gates of the city, and out into the wide 
road vanishing northwards — the princess 
struggling and screaming all the time and 
the wise woman holding her tight. When 
at length she was too tired to struggle or 
scream any more, the wise woman un- 
folded her cloak and set her down, and 
the princess saw the light and opened her 
swollen eyelids. There was nothing in 
sight that she had ever seen before. City 
and palace had disappeared. They were 
upon a wide road going straight on, with 
a ditch on each side of it, that, behind 
them, widened into the great moat that 
surrounded the city. She cast up a ter- 
rified look into the wise woman’s face, 
that gazed down upon her gravely and 
kindly. Now the princess did not in the 
least understand kindness. She always 
took it for a sign either of partiality or 
fear. So, when the wise woman looked 
kindly upon her, she rushed at her, but- 
ting with her head like a ram. But the 
folds of the cloak had closed around the 
wise woman, and when the princess ran 
against it she found it hard as the cloak of 
a bronze statue, and fell back upon the 
road with a great bruise on her head. 
The wise woman lifted her again, and put 
her once more under the cloak, where she 
fell asleep, and where she awoke again 


only to find that she was still being car- 
ried on and on. 

When at length the wise woman again 
stopped and set her down, she saw around 
her a bright moonlit night, on a wide 
heath, solitary and houseless. Here she 
felt more frightened than before; nor was 
her terror assuaged when, looking up, she 
saw a stern, immovable countenance, with 
cold eyes fixedly regarding her. All she 
knew of the world being derived from 
nursery tales, she concluded that the wise 
woman was an ogress carrying her home 
to eat her. 

I have already said that the princess 
was, at this time of her life, such a low- 
minded creature that severity had a 
greater influence over her than kindness. 
She understood terror better far than 
tenderness. When the wise woman 
looked at her thus, she fell on her knees 
and held up her hands to her crying, “ Oh, 
don’t eat me! Don’t eat me!” 

Now, this being the best she could do, 
it was a sign she was a low creature. 
Think of it — to kick at kindness and 
kneel from terror! But the sternness on 
the face of the wise woman came from the 
same heart and the same feeling as the 
kindness that had shone from it before; 
the only thing that could save the prin- 
cess from her hatefulness was that she 
should be made to mind somebody else 
than her own miserable Somebody. 

Without saying a word, the wise woman 
reached down her hand, took one of Rosa- 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


9 


mond’s, and, lifting her to her feet, led 

her along through the moonlight. Every 

now and' then a gush of obstinacy would 

well up in the heart of the princess, and 

she would give a great, ill-tempered tug, 

and pull her hand away% But then the 

\ 

wise woman would gaze down upon her 
with such a look that she instantly sought 
again the hand she had rejected — in pure 
terror lest she should he eaten upon the 
spot. And so they would walk on again, 
and when the wind blew the folds of 
the cloak against the princess, she found 
them as soft as her mother’s camel-hair 
shawl. 

After a little while the wise woman 
began to sing to her, and the princess 
could not help listening, for the soft wind 
among the low, dry bushes of the heath, 
the rustle of their own steps, and the 
trailing of the wise woman’s cloak, were 
the only sounds beside. 

And this is the song she sang: 

“ Out in the cold. 

With a thin-worn fold 
Of withered gold 
Around her rolled, 

Hangs in the air the weary moon. 

She is old, old, old; 

And her bones all cold, 

And her tales all told, 

And her things all sold, 

And she has no breath to croon. 

“ Like a castaway clout. 

She is quite shut out! 

She might call and shout, 

But no one about 

Would ever call back — Who’s there? 


There is never a hut, 

Not a door to shut, 

Not a footpath or rut, 

Long road or short cut, 

Leading to anywhere. 

“ She is all alone, 

Like a dog-picked bone, 

The poor old crone! 

She fain would groan, 

Blit she can not find the breath. 

She once had a fire, 

But she built it no higher, 

And only sat nigher 
Till she saw it expire; 

And now she is cold as death. 

“ She never will smile 
All the lonesome while. 

O, the mile after mile, 

And never a stile! 

And never a tree or a stone! 

She has not a tear: 

Afar and anear, 

It is all so drear, 

But she does not care, 

Her heart is as dry as a bone. 

** None to come near her! 

No one to cheer her! 

No one to jeer her! 

No one to hear her! 

Not a thing to lift and hold! 

She is always awake, 

But her heart will not break; 

She can only quake, 

Shiver and shake — 

The old woman is very cold.” 

As strange as the song,, was the croon- 
ing, wailing tune that the wise woman 
sung. At the first note, almost, you 
would have thought she wanted to 
frighten the princess, and so indeed she 
did. For when people will be naughty, 
they have to be frightened, and they are 
not expected to like it. The princess 


10 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


grew angry, pulled her hand away and 
cried: 

“You are an ugly old woman! I hate 
your 

Therewith she stood still, expecting the 
wise woman to stop also, perhaps coax her 
to go on; if she did, she was determined 
not to move a step. But the wise woman 
never even looked about; she kept walk- 
ing on steadily, the same pace as before, 
little Obstinate thought for certain she 
would turn, for she regarded herself as 
much too precious to be left behind; but 
on and on the wise woman went, until she 
had vanished aw r ay in the dim moonlight. 
Then all at once the princess perceived 
that she w r as left alone, with the moon 
looking down on her from the height of 
her loneliness. She w r as horribly fright- 
ened, and began to run after the wise 
woman, calling aloud. But the song she 
had just heard came back to the sound of 
her own running feet: 

“ All, all alone 
Like a dog-picked bone!” 

And again: 

** She might call and shout, 

And no one about 

Would ever call back— Who’s there?” 

and she screamed as she ran. How she 
wished she knew the old woman’s name, 
that she might call it after her through 
the moonlight! 


But the wise woman had in truth heard 
the first sound of her running feet, and 
stopped and turned, waiting. What with 
running and crying, however, and a fall 
or two as she ran, the princess never saw 
her until she fell right into her arms — 
and the same moment into a fresh rage; 
for as soon as any trouble was over, the 
princess w^as always ready to begin an- 
other. The wise woman therefore pushed 
her aw r ay and walked on, while the prin- 
cess ran scolding and storming after her. 
She had to run till, from very fatigue, her 
rudeness ceased. Her heart gave w r ay, she 
burst into tears and ran on silently weep- 
ing. 

A minute more and the wise woman 
stopped, and, lifting her in her arms, 
folded her cloak around her. Instantly 
she fell asleep, and slept as soft and as 
soundly as if she had been in her ow r n bed. 
She slept till the moon w r ent down; she 
slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he 
climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he 
went down again, and the poor old moon 
came peeking and peering out once more; 
and all that time the wise woman w r ent 
■walking on and on very fast. And now 
they had reached a spot where a few fir 
trees came to meet them through the 
moonlight. 

At the same time the princess aw T akened 
and, popping her head out between the 
folds of the wise woman’s cloak — a very 
ugly little owlet she looked — saw^ that 
they were entering the w r ood. Now, there 



A whitewashed cottage gleaming in the light of the moon 

11 













12 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


is something awful about every wood, es- 
pecially in the moonlight, and perhaps a 
fir wood is more awful than other woods; 
for one thing, it lets a little more light 
through, rendering the darkness a little 
more visible, as it were; and then the 
trees go stretching away up towards the 
moon, and look as if they cared nothing 
about the creatures below them — not like 
the broad trees, with soft, wide leaves, 
that in the darkness even look sheltering. 
So the princess is not to be blamed that 
she was very much frightened. She is 
hardly to be blamed either that, assured 
the wise wuman was an ogress carrying 
her to her castle to eat her up, she began 
again to kick and scream violently, as 
those of my readers who are of the same 
sort as herself will consider the right and 
natural thing to do. The wrong in her 
was this: that she had led such a bad life 
that she did not know a good woman when 
she saw her — took her for one like herself, 
even after she had slept in her arms. 

Immediately the wise woman set her 
down and, walking on, with a few paces 
vanished among the trees. Then the cries 
of the princess rent the air, but the fir 
trees never heeded her; not one of their 
hard little needles gave a single shiver for 
all the noise she fhade. But there were 
creatures in the forest who were soon 
quite as much interested in her cries as 
the fir trees were indifferent to them. 
They began to hearken and howl and 
snuff about, and run hither and thither, 


and grin with their white tpeth, and light 
up the green lamps in their eyes. In a 
minute or two a whole army of wolves and 
hyenas were rushing from all quarters 
through the pillar-like stems of the fir 
trees, to the place where she stood calling 
them without knowing it. The noise she 
made herself, however, prevented her 
from hearing either their howls or the 
soft pattering of their many trampling 
feet as they hounded over the fallen fir 
needles and cones. 

One huge old wolf had outsped the rest 
— not that he could run faster, but that 
from experience he could more exactly 
judge whence the cries came; and as he 
shot through the woods, she caught sight 
at last of his lamping eyes coming swiftly 
nearer and nearer. Terror silenced her. 
She stood with her mouth open, as if she 
were going to eat the wolf, but she had no 
breath to scream with, and her tongue 
curled up in her mouth like a withered 
and frozen leaf. She 'could do nothing 
but stare at the coming monster. And 
now he was taking a few shorter bounds, 
measuring the distance for the one final 
leap that should bring him upon her, 
when out stepped the wise woman from 
behind the very tree by which she had set 
the princess down, caught the wolf by the 
throat in his very last spring, shook him 
once and threw him from her dead. Then 
she turned towards the princess, who 
flung herself into her arms, and was in- 
stantly lapped in the folds of her cloak. 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


But now the huge army of wolves and 
hyenas had rushed like a sea around them, 
whose waves leaped with hoarse roar and 
hollow yell up against the wise woman. 
But she, like a strong, stately vessel, 
moved unhurt through the midst of them. 
Ever as they leaped against her cloak, 
they dropped and slunk away back 
through the crowd. Others ever suc- 
ceeded, and ever in their turn fell and 
drew back confounded. For some time 
she walked on attended and assailed on all 
sides by the howling pack. Suddenly 
they turned and swept away, vanishing in 
the depths of the forest. She neither 
hastened or slackened her step, but went 
walking on as before. 

In a little while she unfolded her cloak 
and let the princess look out. The firs 
had ceased, and they were on a lofty 
height of moorland, stony and bare and 
dry, with tufts of heather and a few small 
plants here and there. About the heath, 
on every side, lay the forest, looking in 
the moonlight like a cloud; and above the 
forest, like the shaven crown of a monk, 
rose the bare moor over which they were 
walking. Presently, a little way in front 
of them, the princess espied a white- 
washed cottage, gleaming in the moon. 
As they came nearer, she saw that the 
roof was covered with thatch, over which 
the moss had grown green. It was a very 
simple, humble place, not in the least ter- 
rible to look at, and yet, as soon as she 
saw it, her fear again awoke, and always, 


13 

as soon as her fear awoke, the trust of the 
princess fell into a dead sleep. Foolish 
and useless as she might by this time have 
known it, she once more began kicking 
and screaming, whereupon yet once more 
the wise woman set her down on the 
heath, a few yards from the back of the 
cottage, and saying only, “ No one ever 
gets into my house who does not knock at 
the door and ask to come in,” disappeared 
round the corner of the cottage, leaving 
the princess alone with the moon — two 
white faces in the cone of the night. 


CHAPTER III. 

HE moon stared at the 
princess, and the prin- 
cess stared at the 
moon; but the moon 
had the best of it and 
the princess began to 
cry. And now the question was between 
the moon and the cottage. The princess 
thought she knew the worst of the moon, 
and she knew nothing at all about the cot- 
tage, therefore she would stay with the 
moon. Strange, was it not, that she 
should have been so long with the wise 
woman and yet know nothing about that 
cottage? As for the moon, she did noc 
by any means know the worst of her, or 
even that, if she were to fall asleep where 
she could find her, the old witch would 
certainly do her best to twist her face. 



14 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


But she had scarcely sat a moment 
longer before she was assailed by all sorts 
of fresh fears. First of all, the soft wind 
blowing gently through the dry stalks of 
the heather and its thousands of little 
bells raised a sweet rustling, which the 
princess took for the hissing of serpents, 
for you know she had been naughty for so 
long that she could not, in a great many 
things, tell the good from the bad. Then, 
nobody could deny that there, all round 
about the heath, like a ring of darkness, 
lay the gloomy fir wood, and the princess 
knew what it was full of, and every now 
and then she thought she heard the howl- 
ing of its wolves and hyenas. And who 
could tell but some of them might break 
from their covert and sweep like a shadow 
across the heath? Indeed, it was' not once 
nor twice that for a moment she was fully 
persuaded she saw a great beast coming, 
leaping and bounding through the moon- 
light, to have her all to himself. She did 
not know that not a single evil creature 
dared set foot on that heath, or that if one 
should do so, it would that instant wither 
up and cease. If an army of them had 
rushed to invade it, it would have melted 
away on the edge of it and ceased like a 
dying wave. She even imagined that the 
moon was slowly coming nearer and 
nearer down the sky to take her and freeze 
her to death in her arms. The wise 
woman, too, she felt sure, although her 
cottage looked asleep, was watching her at 
some little window. In this, however, she 


would have been quite right if she had 
only imagined enough — namely, that the 
wise woman was watching over her from 
the little window. But after all, some- 
how, the thought of the wise woman was 
less frightful than that of any of her other 
terrors, and at length she began to won- 
der whether it might not turn out that she 
was no ogress, but only a rude, ill-bred, 
tyrannical, yet on the whole not alto- 
gether ill-meaning person. Hardly had 
the possibility arisen in her mind before 
she was on her feet; if the woman was 
anything short of an ogress, her cottage 
must be better than that horrible loneli- 
ness, with nothing in all the world but a 
stare, and even an ogress had at least the 
shape and look of a human being. 

She darted round the end of the cottage 
to find the front. But to her surprise she 
came only to another back, for no door 
was to be seen. She tried the further end, 
but still no door! She must have passed 
it as she ran — but no, neither in gable 
nor in side was any to be found! 

A cottage without a door! She rushed 
at it in a rage and kicked at the wall with 
her feet. But the wall was hard as iron, 
and hurt her sadly through her gay silken 
slippers. She threw herself on the heath, 
which came up to the walls of the cottage 
on every side, and roared and screamed 
with rage. Suddenly, however, she re- 
membered how her screaming had brought 
the horde of wolves and hyenas about her 
in the forest, and, ceasing at once, lay 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


15 


still, gazing yet again at the moon. And 
then came the thought of her parents in 
the palace at home. In her mind’s eye 
she saw her mother sitting at her em- 
broidery with the tears dropping upon it, 
and her father staring into the fire as if 
he were looking for her in its glowing 
caverns. It is true that if they had both 
been in tears by her side because of her 
naughtiness, she would not have cared a 
straw; but now her own forlorn condition 
somehow helped her to understand their 
grief at having lost her, and not- only a 
great longing to be back in her comfort- 
able home, but a feeble flutter of genuine 
love for her parents awoke in her heart as 
well, and she burst into real tears — soft, 
mournful tears — very different from 
those of rage and disappointment to 
which she was so much used. And an- 
other very remarkable thing was that the 
moment she began to love -her father and 
mother, she began to wish to see the wise 
woman again. The idea of her being an 
ogress vanished utterly, and she thought 
of her only as one to take her in from the 
moon, and the loneliness, and the terrors 
of the forest-haunted heath, and hide her 
in a cottage with not even a door for the 
horrid wolves to howl against. 

But the old woman — as the princess 
called her, not knowing that her real 
name was the Wise Woman — had told 
her that she must knock at the door; how 
was she to do that when there was no 
door? But again she bethought herself 


that, if she could not do all she was told, 
she could at least do a part of it; if she 
could not knock at the door, she could at 
least knock — say, on the wall, for there 
was nothing else to knock upon — and 
perhaps the old woman would hear her 
and lift her in by some window. There- 
upon she rose at once to her feet and, 
picking up a stone, began to knock on the 
wall with it. A loud noise was the result, 
and she found she was knocking on the 
very door itself. For a moment she feared 
the old woman would be offended, but the 
next there came a voice saying: 

“ Who is there?” 

The princess answered: 

“ Please, old woman, I did not mean to 
knock so loud.” 

To this there came no reply. 

Then the princess knocked again, this 
time with her knuckles, and the voice 
came again saying: 

“ Who is there?” 

And the princess answered: 

“ Rosamond.” 

Then the second time there was silence. 
But the princess soon ventured to knock 
a third time. 

“ What do you want?” said the voice. 

“ Oh, please let me in!” said the prin- 
cess. “ The moon will keep staring at 
me, and I hear the wolves in the wood.” 

Then the door opened and the princess 
entered. She looked all around, but saw 
nothing of the wise woman. 

It was a single, bare little room, with a 


16 A DOUBLE STORY. 


white deal table and a few old wooden 
chairs, a fire of fir wood on the hearth, 
the smoke of which smelled sweet, and a 
patch of thick-growing heath in one cor- 
ner. Poor as it was, compared to the 
grand place Rosamond had left, she felt 
no little satisfaction as she shnt the door 
and looked around her. And what with 
the sufferings and terrors she had left out- 
side, the new kind of tears she had shed, 
the love she had begun to feel for her par- 
ents, and the trust she had begun to place 
in the wise woman, it seemed to her as if 
her soul had grown larger of a sudden, 
and she had deft the days of her childish- 
ness and naughtiness far behind her. 
People are so ready to think themselves 
changed when it is only their mood that is 
changed. Those who are good-tempered 
because it is a fine day, will be ill-tem- 
pered when it rains; their selves are just 
the same both days; only in the one case 
the fine weather has got into them, in the 
other the rainy. Rosamond, as she sat 
warming herself by the glow of the peat 
fire, turning over in her mind all that had 
passed, and feeling how pleasant the 
change in her feelings was, began by de- 
grees to think how very good she had 
grown, and how very good she was to have 
grown good, and how extremely good she 
must always have been that she was able 
to grow so very good as she now felt she 
had grown; and she became so absorbed 
in her self-admiration as never to notice 
either that the fire was dying, or that a 


heap of fir cones lay in a corner near it. 
Suddenly a great wind came roaring down 
the chimney and scattered the ashes about 
the floor; a tremendous rain followed and 
fell hissing on the embers; the moon was 
swallowed up and there was darkness all 
about her. Then a flash of lightning, fol- 
lowed by a peal of thunder, so terrified 
the princess that she cried aloud for the 
old woman, but there came no answer to 
her cry. 

Then in her terror the princess grevr 
angry, and saying to herself, “ She must 
be somewhere in the place, else who was 
there to open the door to me?” began to 
shout and yell, and call the wise woman 
all the bad names she had been in the 
habit of throwing at her nurses. But 
there came not a single sound in reply. 

Strange to say, the princess never 
thought of telling herself now how 
naughty she was, though that would surely 
have been reasonable. On the contrary, she 
thought she had a perfect right to be 
angry, for was she not most desperately 
ill-used? — and a princess, too! But the 
wind howled on, and the rain kept pour- . 
ing down the chimney, and every now and 
then the lightning burst out, and the 
thunder rushed after it, as if the great 
lumbering sound could ever think to 
catch up with the swift light! 

At length the princess had again grown 
so angry, frightened and miserable, all to- 
gether, that she jumped up and hurried 
about the cottage with outstretched arms. 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


17 


trying to find the wise woman. But 
being in a bad temper always makes peo- 
ple stupid, and presently she struck her 
forehead such a blow against something — 
she thought herself it felt like the old 
woman’s cloak — that she fell back; not 
on the floor, though, but on the patch of 
heather, which felt as soft and pleasant as 
any bed in the palace. There, worn out 
with weeping and rage, she soon fell fast 
asleep. 

She dreamed that she was the old cold 
woman up in the sky, with no home and 
no friends, and no nothing at all, not 
even a pocket; wandering, wandering for- 
ever over a desert of blue sand, never to 
get to anywhere, and never to lie down or 
die. 

It was no use stopping to look about 
her, for what had she to do but forever 
look about her as she went on and on and 
on — never seeing anything and never ex- 
pecting to see anything! The only 
shadow of a hope she had was that she 
might, by slow degrees, grow thinner and 
thinner, until at last she wore away to 
nothing at all; only, alas! she could not 
detect the least sign that she had yet be- 
gun to grow thinner. The hopelessness 
grew at length so unendurable that she 
woke with a start. Seeing the face of the 
wise woman bending over her, she threw 
her arms aroifnd her neck and held up her 
mouth to be kissed. And the kiss of the 
wise woman was like the rose gardens of 
Damascus. 


CHAPTER IV. 

IE wise woman lifted 
the princess tenderly, 
and washed and 
dressed her far more 
carefully than even her 
nurse. Then she set 
her down by the fire, 
and prepared her breakfast. She was very 
hungry, and the bread and milk as good as 
it could be, so that she thought she had 
never in her life eaten anything nicer. 
Nevertheless, as soon as she began to have 
enough, she said to herself: 

“Ha! I see how it is! The old 
woman wants to fatten me! That is why 
she gives me such nice, creamy milk! She 
doesn’t kill me now because she is going 
to kill me then! She is an ogress, after 
all!” 

Thereupon she laid down her spoon 
and would not eat another mouthful — 
only followed the basin with longing looks 
as the wise woman carried it away. 

When she stopped eating, her hostess 
knew exactly what she was thinking; but 
it was one thing to understand the prin- 
cess, and quite another to make the prin- 
cess understand her; that would require 
time. For the present she took no notice, 
but went about the affairs of the house — 
sweeping the floor, brushing down the cob- 
webs, cleaning the hearth, dusting the 
table and chairs, and watering the bed to 
keep it fresh and alive — for she never 



18 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


had more than one guest at a time, and 
never would allow that guest to go to 
sleep upon anything that had no life in it. 
All the time she was thus busied, she 
spoke not a word to the princess, which, 
with the princess, went to confirm her no- 
tion of her purposes. But whatever she 
might have said would have been only 
perverted by the princess into yet stronger 
proof of her evil designs, for a fancy in 
her own head would outweigh any multi- 
tude of facts in another’s. She kept star- 
ing at the fire, and never looked around 
to see what the wise woman might be 
doing. 

By and by she came close up to the back 
of her chair and said: 

“ Rosamond!” 

But the princess had fallen into one of 
her sulky moods, and shut herself up with 
her own ugly Somebody; so she never 
looked round or even answered the wise 
woman. 

“ Rosamond,” she repeated, “ I am go- 
ing out. If you are a good girl — that is, 
if you do as I tell you — I will carry you 
back to your father and mother the mo- 
ment I return.” 

The princess did not take the least 
notice. 

“ Look at me, Rosamond,” said the wise 
woman. 

But Rosamond never moved — never 
even shrugged her shoulders — perhaps 
because they were already up to her ears 
and could go no further. 


“ I want to help you to do what I tell 
you,” said the wise woman. “Look at 
me.” 

Still Rosamond was motionless and si- 
lent, saying only to herself: 

“ I know what she’s after! She wants 
to show me her horrid teeth! But I won’t 
look! I’m not going to be frightened out 
of my senses to please her!” 

“ You had better look, Rosamond. 
Have you forgotten how you kissed me 
this morning?” 

But Rosamond now regarded that little 
throb of affection as a momentary weak- 
ness into which the deceitful ogress had 
betrayed her, and almost despised herself 
for it. She was one of those who the more 
they are coaxed are the more disagreeable. 
For such the wise woman had an awful 
punishment, but she remembered that the 
princess had been very ill brought up, and 
therefore wished to try her with all gen- 
tleness first. 

She stood silent for a moment to see 
what effects her words might have. But 
Rosamond only said to herself: 

“ She wants to fatten and eat me.” 

And it was such a little while since she 
had looked into the wise woman’s loving 
eyes, thrown her arms round her neck and 
kissed her! 

“Well,” said the wise woman, gently, 
after a long pause, “ I must tell you then 
without; only whoever listens with her 
back turned listens but half, and gets but 
half the help.” 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


19 


“ She wants to fatten me,” said the 
princess. 

“ You must keep the cottage tidy while 
I am out. When I come back I must see 
the fire bright, the hearth swept and the 
kettle boiling; no dust on the table or 
chairs, the windows clean, the floor clean, 
and the heather in blossom — which last 
comes of sprinkling it with water three 
times a day. When you are hungry, put 
your hand into that hole in the wall, and 
you will find a meal.” 

“ She wants to fatten me,” said the 
princess. 

“ But on no account leave the house till 
I come hack,” continued the wise woman, 
“or you will grievously repent it. Re- 
member what you have already gone 
through to reach it. Dangers lie all 
around this cottage of mine, hut inside it 
is the safest place — in fact, the only 
quite safe place in all the country.” 

“ She means to eat me,” said the prin- 
cess, “ and therefore wants to frighten me 
from running away.” 

She heard the voice no more. Then, 
suddenly startled at the thought of being 
alone, she looked hastily over her shoul- 
der. The cottage w r as indeed empty of all 
visible life. It was soundless, too; there 
was not even a ticking clock or a flapping 
flame. The fire burned still and smoul- 
dering-wise, but it was all the company 
she had and she turned again to stare into 
it. 

Soon she began to grow weary of having 


nothing to do. Then she remembered 
that the old woman, as she called her, had 
told her to keep the house tidy. 

“ The miserable little pig-sty!” she said. 
“ Where’s the use of keeping such a hovel 
clean?” 

But in truth she would have been glad 
of the employment, only just because she 
had been told to do it she was unwilling; 
for there are people — however unlikely 
it may seem — who object to doing a 
thing for no other reason than that it is 
required of them. 

“ I am a princess,” she said, “ and it is 
very improper to ask me to do such a 
thing.” 

She might have judged it quite as suit- 
able for a princess to sweep away the dust 
as to sit the center of a world of dirt. But 
just because she ought, she wouldn’t. Per- 
haps she feared that if she gave in to 
doing her duty once, she might have to 
do it always, which was true enough, for 
that was the very thing for which she had 
been specially horn. 

Unable, however, to feel quite comfort- 
able in the resolve to neglect it, she said 
to herself, “ I’m sure there’s time enough 
for such a nasty job as that!” and sat on, 
watching the fire as it burned away, the 
glowing red casting off white flakes, and 
sinking lower and lower on the hearth. 

By and by, merely for want of some- 
thing to do, she would see what the old 
woman had left for her in the hole in the 
wall. But when she put in her hand she 


20 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


found nothing there, except the dust 
which she ought by this time to have 
wiped away. Never reflecting that the 
wise woman had told her she would find 
food there when she was hungry, she flew 
into one of her furies, calling her a cheat, 
and a thief, and a liar, and an ugly old 
witch, and an ogress, and I do not know 
how many wicked names besides. She 
raged till she was quite exhausted, and 
then fell fast asleep on her chair. When 
she awoke the fire was out. 

By this time she was hungry, but with- 
out looking in the hole she began again to 
storm at the wise woman, in which labor 
she would no doubt have once more ex- 
hausted herself, had not something white 
caught her eye; it was the corner of a nap- 
kin hanging from the hole in the wall. 
She bounded to it, and there was a din- 
ner for her of something strangely good — 
one of her favorite dishes, only better 
than she had ever tasted it before. This 
might surely have at least changed her 
mood toward the wise woman; but she 
only grumbled to herself that it was as it 
ought to be, ate up the food, and lay down 
on the bed, never thinking of fire, or dust, 
or water for the heather. 

The wind began to moan about the cot- 
tage, and grew louder and louder, till a 
great gust came down the chimney and 
again scattered the white ashes all over 
the place. But the princess was by this 
time fast asleep, and never woke till the 
wind had sunk to silence. One of the con- 


sequences, however, of sleeping when one 
ought to be awake, is waking when one 
ought to be asleep; and the princess awoke 
in the black midnight, and found enough 
to keep her awake. For although the 
wind had fallen, there was a far more ter- 
rible howling than that of the wildest 
wind all about the cottage. Nor was the 
howling all; the air was full of strange 
cries, and everywhere she heard the noise 
of claws scratching against the house, 
which seemed all doors and windows, so 
crowded were the sounds and from so 
many directions. All the night long she 
lay half swooning, yet listening to the 
hideous noises. But with the first glim- 
mer of morning they ceased. 

Then she said to herself, “How for- 
tunate it was that I awoke! They would 
have eaten me up if I had been asleep!” 
The miserable little wretch actually 
talked as if she had kept them out! If 
she had done her work in the day, she 
would have slept through the terrors of 
the darkness and awakened fearless; 
whereas now she had in the storehouse of 
her heart a whole harvest of agonies 
reaped from the fields of the night. They 
were neither wolves nor hyenas which 
had caused her such dismay, but creatures 
of the air, more frightful still, which, as 
soon as the smoke of the burning fir wood 
ceased to spread itself abroad, and the sun 
was a sufficient distance down the sky, 
and the lone old woman was out, came 
flying and howling about the cottage, try- 


A DOUBLE STORY, . 21 


mg to get in at every door and window. 
Down the chimney they would have got, 
but that at the heart of the fire there al- 
ways lay a certain fir cone, which looked 
like solid gold red-hot, and which, al- 
though it might easily get covered up with 
ashes, so as to be quite invisible, was con- 
tinually in a glow fit to kindle all the fir 
cones in the world; this it was which had 
kept the horrible birds — some say they 
have a claw at the tip of every wing 
feather — from tearing the poor naughty 
princess to pieces and gobbling her up. 

When she rose and looked about her she 
was dismayed to see what a state the cot- 
tage was in. The fire was out and the 
windows were all dim with the wings and 
claws of the dirty birds, while the bed 
from which she had just risen was brown 
and withered, and half its purple bells had 
fallen. But she consoled herself that she 
could set all to rights in a few minutes — 
only she must breakfast first. And, sure 
enough, there was a basin of the delicious 
bread and milk ready for her in the hole 
of the wall! 

After she had eaten it she felt comfort- 
able, and sat for a long time, building 
castles in the air till she was actually hun- 
gry again, without having done an atom 
of work. She ate again, and was idle again, 
and ate again. Then it grew dark, and 
she went trembling to bed, for now she 
remembered the horrors of the last night. 
This time she never slept at all, but spent 
the long hours in grievous terror, for the 


noises were worse than before. She vowed 
she would not pass another night in such 
a hateful, haunted old shed for all the 
ugly women, witches and ogresses in the 
wide world. In the morning, however, 
she fell asleep and slept late. 

Breakfast was, of course, her first 
thought, after which she could not avoid 
that of work. It made her very miser- 
able, but she feared the consequences of 
being found with it undone. A few 
minutes before noon she actually got up, 
took her pinafore for a duster, and pro- 
ceeded to dust the table. But the wood- 
ashes flew about so that it seemed useless 
to attempt getting rid of them, and she 
sat down again to think what was to be 
done. But there is very little indeed to 
be done when we will not do that which 
we have to do. 

Her first thought now was to run away 
at once while the sun was high and get 
through the forest before night came on. 
She fancied she could easily go back the 
way she had come, and get home to her 
father’s palace. But not the most ex- 
perienced traveler in the world can ever 
go back the way the wise woman had 
brought him. 

She got up and went to the door. It 
was locked! What could the old woman 
have meant by telling her not to leave the 
cottage? She was indignant. 

The wise woman had meant to make it 
difficult but not impossible. Before the 
princess, however, could find the way out. 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


22 

she heard a hand at the door and darted 
in terror behind it. The wise woman 
opened it, and, leaving it open, walked 
straight to the hearth. Rosamond imme- 
diately slid out, ran a little way, and then 
laid herself down in the long heather. 


CHAPTER V. 

wise woman walked 
straight up to the 
hearth, looked at the 
fire, looked at the bed, 
glanced round the 
room, and went up to 
the table. When she 
saw the one streak in the thick dust which 
the princess had left there, a smile, half 
sad, half pleased, like the sun peeping 
through a cloud on a rainy day in spring, 
gleamed over her face. She went at once 
to the door and called in a loud voice: 

“ Rosamond, come to me/’ 

All the wolves and hyenas, fast asleep 
in the wood, heard her voice, and shivered 
in their dreams. No wonder, then, that 
the princess trembled and found herself 
compelled, she could not understand how, 
to obey the summons. She rose like the 
guilty thing she felt, forsook of herself 
the hiding-place she had chosen, and 
walked slowly back to the cottage she had 
left full of the signs of her shame. When 
she entered, she saw the wise woman on 
her knees, building up the fire with fir 


cones. Already the flame was climbing 
through the heap in all directions, crack- 
ling gently, and sending a sweet, aromatic 
odor through the dusty cottage. 

“That is my part of the work,” she said, 
rising. “Now you do yours. But first 
let me remind you that if you had not put 
it off, you would have found it not only 
far easier, but by and by quite pleasant 
work, much more pleasant than you can 
imagine now; nor would you have found 
the time go wearily; you would neither 
have slept in the day and let the fire go 
out, nor waked at night and heard the 
howling of the beast-birds. More than 
all you would have been glad to see me 
when I came back, and would have leaped 
into my arms, instead of standing there, 
looking so ugly and foolish.” 

As she spoke, suddenly she held up be- 
fore the princess a tiny mirror, so clear 
that nobody looking into it could tell 
what it was made of, or even see it at all 
— only the thing reflected in it. Rosa- 
mond saw a child, with dirty, fat cheeks, 
greedy mouth, cowardly eyes — which, 
not daring to look forward, seemed try- 
ing to hide behind an impertinent nose — 
stooping shoulders, tangled hair, tattered 
clothes, and smears and stains everywhere. 
This was what she had made herself! 
And, to tell the truth, she was shocked at 
the sight, and immediately began, in her 
dirty heart, to lay the blame on the wise 
woman, because she had taken her away 
from her nurses and her fine clothes; 



A DOUBLE STORY. 


23 


while all the time she knew well enough 
that close by the heather bed was the love- 
liest little well, just big enough to wash 
in, the water of which was always spring- 
ing fresh from the ground and running 
away through the wall. Beside it lay the 
whitest of linen towels, with a comb made 
of mother-of-pearl, and a brush of fir 
needles, any one of which she had been 
far too lazy to use. She dashed the glass 
out of the wise woman’s hand, and there 
it lay, broken into a thousand pieces! 

Without a word the wise woman 
stooped and gathered the fragments — did 
not leave searching until she had gathered 
the last atom; after which she laid them 
all carefully, one by one, in the fire, now 
blazing high on the hearth. Then she 
stood up and looked at the princess, who 
had been watching her sulkily. 

“ Rosamond,” she said, with a counten- 
ance awful in its sternness, “ until you 
have cleansed this room — ” 

“ She calls it a room!” sneered the prin- 
cess to herself. 

“ You shall have no morsel to eat. You 
may drink of the well, but nothing else 
shall you have. When the work I set yon 
is done, you will find food in the same 
place as before. I am going from home 
again, and again I warn you not to leave 
the house.” 

“ She calls it a house! It’s a good 
thing she’s going out of it, anyhow!” said 
the princess, turning her back from mere 
rudeness, for she was one who, even if she 


liked a thing before, would dislike it the 
moment any person in authority over her 
desired her to do it. 

When she looked again, the wise woman 
had vanished. 

Thereupon the princess ran at once to 
the door and tried to open it, but open it 
would not. She searched on all sides, but 
could discover no way of getting out. 
The windows would not open — at least 
she could not open them — and the only 
outlet seemed the chimney, which she was 
afraid to try because of the fire, which 
looked angry, she thought, and shot out 
green flames when she went near it. So 
she sat down to consider. One may well 
wonder what room for consideration there 
was — with all her work lying undone be- 
hind her. She sat thus, however, consid- 
ering, as she called it, until hunger began 
to sting her, when she jumped up and put 
her hand, as usual, in the hole of the wall; 
there was nothing there! She fell straight 
into one of her stupid rages, but neither 
her hunger nor the hole in the wall 
heeded her rage. Then, in a burst of self- 
pity, she fell a-weeping, but neither the 
hunger nor the hole cared for her tears. 
The darkness began to come on, and her 
hunger grew and grew, and the terror of 
the wild noises of the last nights invaded 
her. Then she began to feel cold, and 
saw that the fire was dying. She darted 
to the heap of cones and fed it. It blazed 
up cheerily, and she was comforted a lit- 
tle. Then she thought with herself it 


24 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


would surely be better to give in so far, 
and do a little work, than die of hunger. 
So, catching up a duster, she began on the 
table. The dust flew about and nearly 
choked her. She ran to the well to drink, 
and was refreshed and encouraged. Per- 
ceiving now that it was a tedious plan to 
wipe the dust from the table on to the 
floor, whence it would all have to be 
swept up again, she got a wooden platter, 
wiped the dust into that, carried it to the 
fire and threw it in. But all the time she 
was getting more and more hungry, and 
although she tried the hole again and 
again, it was only to become more and 
more certain that work she must if she 
would eat. 

At length all the furniture was dusted, 
and she began to sweep the floor, which, 
happily, she thought of sprinkling with 
water, as from the window she had seen 
them do to the marble court of the palace. 
That swept, she rushed again to the hole 
— but still no food! She was on the 
verge of another rage, when the thought 
came that she might have forgotten some- 
thing. To her dismay she found that 
table, and chairs, and everything was 
again covered with dust — not so badly as 
before, however. Again she set to work, 
driven by hunger, and drawn by the hope 
of eating, and yet again, after a second 
careful wiping, sought the hole. But no, 
nothing was there for her! What could it 
mean? 

Her asking this question was a sign of 


progress; it showed that she expected the 
wise woman to keep her word. Then she 
bethought her that she had forgotten the 
household utensils, and the dishes and 
plates, some of which wanted to be washed 
as well as dusted. 

Faint with hunger, she set to work yet 
again. One thing made her think of an- 
other, until at length she had cleaned 
everything she could think of. Now, 
surely, she must find some food in the 
hole! 

When this time also there was nothing, 
she began once more to abuse the wise 
woman as false and treacherous; but ah, 
there was the bed unwatered! That was 
soon amended. Still no supper! Ah, 
there was the hearth unswept and the fire 
wanted making up. Still no supper! 
What else could there be? She was at 
her wit’s end, and in very weariness, not 
laziness this time, sat down and gazed into 
the fire. There, as she gazed, she spied 
something brilliant — shining even in the 
midst of the fire; it was the little mirror, 
all whole again, but little she knew that 
the dust which she had thrown into the 
fire had helped to heal it. She drew it 
out carefully, and looking into it saw, 
not indeed the ugly creature she had seen 
there before, but still a very dirty little 
animal; whereupon she hurried to the 
well, took off her clothes, plunged into it, 
and washed herself clean. Then she 
brushed and combed her hair, made her 
clothes as tidy as might be, and ran to the 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


25 


hole in the wall; there was a huge basin of 
bread and milk! 

Never had she eaten anything with half 
the relish! Alas, however, when she had 
finished, she did not wash the basin, but 
left it as it was, revealing how entirely 
all the rest had been done only from hun- 
ger. Then she threw herself on the 
heather and was fast asleep in a moment. 
Never an evil bird came near her all that 
night, nor had she so much as one troubled 
dream. 

In the morning, as she lay awake before 
getting up, she spied what seemed a door 
behind the tall eight-day clock that stood 
silent in the corner. 

“ Ah!” she thought, “ that must he the 
way out!” and got up instantly. The 
first thing she did, however, was to go to 
the hole in the wall. Nothing was there. 

"Well, I am hardly used!” she cried 
aloud. “ All that cleaning for the cross 
old woman yesterday, and this for my 
trouble — nothing for breakfast! Not 
even a crust of bread! Does Mistress 
Ogress fancy a princess will bear that!” 

The poor foolish creature seemed to 
think that the work of one day ought to 
serve for the next day too. But that is 
nowhere the way in the whole universe. 
How could there be a universe in that 
case? And even she never dreamed of 
applying the same rule to her breakfast. 

"How good I was all yesterday!” she 
said, “ and how hungry and ill-used I am 
to-day!” 


But she would not he a slave, and do 
over again to-day what she had done only 
last night! She didn’t care about her 
breakfast! She might have it, no doubt, 
if she dusted all the wretched place again, 
but she was not going to do that — at least 
without seeing first what lay behind the 
clock! 

Off she darted and, putting her hand 
behind the clock, found the latch of a 
door. It lifted and the door opened a lit- 
tle way. By squeezing hard she managed 
to get behind the clock and so through 
the door. But how she stared when, in- 
stead of the open heath, she found herself 
on the marble floor of a large and stately 
room, lighted only from above! Its walls 
were strengthened by pilasters, and in 
every space between was a large picture, 
from cornice to floor. She did not know 
what to make of it. Surely she had run 
all round the cottage, and certainly 
had seen nothing of this size near it. She 
forgot that she had also run round what 
she took for a haymow, a peat-stack, and 
several other things, which looked of no 
consequence in the moonlight. 

“ So, then!” she cried, “ the old woman 
is a cheat! I believe she’s an ogress after 
all, and lives in a palace — though she pre- 
tends it’s only a cottage, to keep people 
from suspecting that she eats good little 
children like me!” 

Had the princess been tolerably tract- 
able, she would by this time have known a 
good deal about the wise woman’s beauti- 


26 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


ful house, whereas she had never till now 
got further than the porch. Neither was 
she at all in its innermost places now. 

But, king’s daughter as she was, she was 
not a little daunted when, stepping for- 
ward from the recess of the door, she saw 
what a great lordly hall it was. She 
dared hardly look to the other end, it 
seemed so far off; so she began to gaze at 
the things near her, and the pictures first 
of all, for she had a great liking for pic- 
tures. One in particular attracted her 
attention. She came back to it several 
times, and at length stood absorbed in it. 

A blue summer sky, with white, fleecy 
clouds floating beneath it, hung over a 
hill, green to the very top, and alive with 
streams darting down its sides toward the 
valley below. On the face of the hill 
strayed a flock of sheep feeding, attended 
by a shepherd and two dogs. A little 
way apart a girl stood with bare feet in a 
brook, building across it a bridge of 
rough stones. The wind was blowing her 
hair back from her rosy face. A lamb 
was feeding close beside her, and a sheep- 
dog was trying to reach her hand to lick 
it. 

“ Oh, how I wish I were that little 
girl!” said the princess, aloud. “ I won- 
der how it is that some people are made 
to be so much happier than others! If I 
were that little girl, no one would ever 
call me naughty!” 

She gazed and gazed at the picture. At 
length she said to herself: 


“ I do not believe it is a picture. It is 
the real country, with a real hill, and a 
real little girl upon it. I shall soon see 
whether this isn’t another of the old 
witch’s cheats.” 

She went close up to the picture, lifted 
her foot and stepped over the frame. 

“ I am free! I am free!” she ex- 
claimed, and she felt the wind upon her 
cheek. 

The sound of a closing door struck on 
her ear. She turned — and there was a 
blank wall, without door or window, be- 
hind her! The hill with the sheep was 
before her, and she set out at once to 
reach it. 

Now, if I am asked how this could be, 
I can only answer that it was a result of 
the interaction of things outside and 
things inside, of the wise woman’s skill 
and the silly child’s folly. If this does 
not satisfy my questioner, I can only add 
that the wise woman was able to do far 
more wonderful things than this. 


CHAPTER VI. 

EANTIME the wise 
woman was busy — as 
she always was — and 
her business now was 
with the child of the 
shepherd and shep- 
herdess, away in the 
north. Her name was Agnes. 



A DOUBLE STOBY. 


27 



Her father and mother were poor, and made her, and thought them the most 
could not give her many things. Eosa- wonderful things in the world — wind- 
mond would have utterly despised the mills, and little crooks, and water-wheels, 
rude, simple playthings she had. Yet in and sometimes lambs made all of wool, 
one respect they were of more value far and dolls made out of the leg bones of 
than hers: the king bought Eosamond’s sheep, which her mother dressed for her, 

and of such playthings she never tired. 
Sometimes, however, she preferred play- 
ing with stones, which were plentiful, 
and flowers, which were few, 
or the brooks that ran down 
the hill, of which, although 
there were many, she could 
only play with one at a time, 
and that indeed troubled her 
a little; or live 
lambs, that were 
not all wool, or the 
sheep-dogs, which 
were very friendly 
with her and the 
best of play-fellows, 
as she thought, for 
she had no human 
ones to compare 

Live lambs that were not all wool. them with. Nei- 

ther was she greedy 

with his money, Agnes’ father made hers after nice things, but content, as well 
with his hands. she might be, with the homely food 

And while Agnes had but few things — provided for her. Nor was she by nature 
not seeing many things about her, and not particularly self-willed or disobedient; 
even knowing that there were many she generally did what her father and 
things anywhere — she did not wish for mother wished and believed what they 
many things, and was therefore neither told her. But by degrees they had 
covetous nor avaricious. spoiled her. And this was the way: 

She played with the toys her father They were so proud of her that they 


28 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


always repeated everything she said, 
and told everything she did, even when 
she was present; and so full of admiratiou 
of their child were they that they won- 
dered, and laughed at, and praised things 
in her which, in another child, would 
never have struck them as the least re- 
markable, and some things even which 
would in another have disgusted them 
altogether. Impertinent and rude things, 
done by their child, they thought so 
clever, laughing at them as something 
quite marvelous; her commonplace 
speeches were said over again as if they 
had been the finest poetry; and the pretty 
ways which every moderately good child 
has were extolled as if the result of her 
excellent taste and the choice of her judg- 
ment and will. They would even say 
sometimes that she ought not to hear her 
own praises for fear it should make her 
vain, and then whisper them behind their 
hands, but so loud that she could not fail 
to hear every word. The consequence was 
that she soon came to believe — so soon 
that she could not recall the time when 
she did not believe — as the most absolute 
fact in the universe, that she was Some- 
body; that is, she became immoderately 
conceited. 

Now, as the least atom of conceit is a 
thing to he ashamed of, you may fancy 
what she was like with such a quantity of 
it inside her! At first it did not show 
itself outside in any wery active form, hut 
the wise woman had been to the cottage, 


and had seen her sitting alone with such 
a smile of self-satisfaction upon her face 
as would have been quite startling to her, 
if she had ever been startled at anything. 
For through that smile she could see, 
lying at the root of it, the worm that made 
it. For some smiles are like the ruddiness 
of certain apples, which is owing to a 
centipede, or other creeping thing, coiled 
up at the heart of them. Only her worm 
had a face and shape the very image of 
her own; and she looked so simpering, 
and mawkish, and self-conscious, and 
silly, that she made the wise woman feel 
rather sick. 

Not that the child was a fool. Had 
she been, the wise woman would have only 
pitied and loved her, instead of feeling 
sick when she looked at her. She had 
very fair abilities, and were she once but 
made humble, would be capable not only 
of doing a good deal in time, but of begin- 
ning at once to grow to no end. But if 
she were not made humble, her growing 
would be to a mass of distorted shapes all 
huddled together, so that, although the 
body she now showed might grow up 
straight, and well-shaped, and comely to 
behold, the new body that was growing 
inside of it, and would come out of it 
when she died, would be ugly, and 
crooked this way and that, like an aged 
hawthorn that has lived hundreds of years 
exposed upon all sides to salt sea-winds. 

As time went on, this disease of self- 
conceit went on, too, gradually devouring 


A DOUBLE STORY. 29 


the good that was in her; for there is no 
fault that does not bring its brothers and 
sisters and cousins to live with it. By 
degrees, from thinking herself so clever, 
she came to fancy that whatever seemed 
to her must, of course, be the correct 
judgment, and whatever she wished the 
right thing; and grew so obstinate that at 
length her parents feared to thwart her in 
anything, knowing w^ell that she would 
never give in. But there are victories far 
worse than defeats; and to overcome an 
angel too gentle to put out all his 
strength, and ride away in triumph on the 
back of a devil, is one of the poorest. 

So long as she was left to take her own 
way and do as she would, she gave her par- 
ents little trouble. She would play about 
by herself in the little garden with its 
few hardy flowers, or among the heather 
where the bees were busy, or she would 
wander away among the hills, and be no- 
body knew where, sometimes from morn- 
ing to night, nor did her parents venture 
to find fault with her. 

She never went into rages like the prin- 
cess, and would have thought Rosamond, 
oh, so ugly and vile! if she had seen her in 
one of her passions. But she was no bet- 
ter for all that, and was quite as ugly in 
the eyes of the wise woman, who could 
not only see but read her face. What is 
there to choose between a face distorted 
to hideousness by anger, and one distorted 
to silliness by self-complacency? True, 
there is more hope of helping the angry 


child out of her form of selfishness than 
the conceited child out of hers; but, on 
the other hand, the conceited child was 
not so terrible or dangerous as the wrath- 
ful one. The conceited one, however, 
was sometimes very angry, and then her 
anger was more spiteful than the other’s; 
and, again, the wrathful one was often 
very conceited, too. So that, on the 
whole, of two very unpleasant creatures, 
I would say that the king’s daughter 
would have been the worst, had not the 
shepherd’s been quite as bad. 

But, as I have said, the wise woman had 
her eye upon her. She saw that some- 
thing special must be done, else she would 
be one of those who kneel to their own 
shadows till feet grow on their knees; 
then go down on their hands till their 
hands grow into feet; then lay their faces 
on the ground till they grow into snouts; 
when at last they are a hideous sort of 
lizard, each of which believes himself the 
best, wisest and loveliest being in the 
world, yea, the very center of the uni- 
verse. And so they run about forever 
looking for their own shadows, that they 
may worship them, and miserable be- 
cause they can not find them, being them- 
selves too near the ground to have any 
shadows; and what becomes of them at 
last there is but one who knows. 

The wise woman, therefore, one day 
walked up to the door of the shepherd’s 
cottage, dressed like a poor woman, and 
asked for a drink of water. The shep- 


30 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


herd’s wife looked at her, liked her, and 
brought her a cup of milk. The wise 
woman took it, for she made it a rule to 
accept every kindness that was offered 
her. 

Agnes was not by nature a greedy girl, 
as I have said; but self-conceit will go far 
to generate every other vice under the 
sun. Vanity, which is a form of self- 
conceit, has repeatedly shown itself as the 
deepest feeling in the heart of a horrible 
murderess. 

That morning at breakfast her mother 
had stinted her in milk just a little that 
she might have enough to make some 
milk porridge for their dinner. Agnes 
did not mind it at the time, but when she 
saw the milk now given to a beggar, as 
she called the wise woman — though surely 
one might ask a draught of water and ac- 
cept a draught of milk without being a 
beggar in any such sense as Agnes’ con- 
temptuous use of the word implied — a 
cloud came upon her forehead and a 
double vertical wrinkle settled over her 
nose. The wise woman saw it, for all her 
business was with Agnes, though she little 
knew it, and, rising, went and offered the 
cup to the child, where she sat with her 
knitting in a corner. Agnes looked at it, 
did not want it, was inclined to refuse it 
from a beggar, but thinking it would show 
her consequence to assert her rights, took 
it and drank it up. For whoever is pos- 
sessed by a devil judges with the mind of 
that devil; and hence Agnes was guilty of 


such a meanness as many who are them- 
selves capable of something just as bad 
will consider incredible. 

The wise woman waited till she had fin- 
ished it, then, looking into the empty cup, 
said: 

“You might have given me back as 
much as you had no claim upon.” 

Agnes turned away and made no an- 
swer, far less from shame than indigna- 
tion. 

The wise woman looked at the mother. 

“ You should not have offered it to her 
if you did not mean her to have it,” said 
the mother, siding with the devil in her 
child against the wise woman and her 
child, too. Some foolish people think 
they take another’s part when they take 
the part he takes. 

The wise w r oman said nothing, but fixed 
her eyes upon her, and soon the mother 
hid her face in her apron weeping. Then 
she turned again to Agnes, who had never 
looked round, but sat with her back to 
both, and suddenly lapped her in the folds 
of her cloak. When the mother again 
lifted her eyes she had vanished. 

Never supposing she had carried away 
her child, but uncomfortable because of 
what she had said to the poor woman, the 
mother went to the door, and called after 
her as she toiled slowly up the hill. But 
she never turned her head, and the 
mother went back into her cottage. 

The wise woman walked close past the 
shepherd and his dogs, and through the 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


31 


midst of his flock of sheep. The shep- 
herd wondered where she could be going, 
right up the hill. There was something 
strange about her, too, he thought, and 
he followed her with his eyes. 

It was near sunset, and as the sun went 
down a gray cloud settled on the top of 
the mountain, which his last rays turned 
into a rosy gold. Straight into this cloud 
the shepherd saw the woman hold her 
pace, and in it she vanished. He little 
imagined that his child was under her 
cloak. 

He went home, as usual, in the evening, 
but Agnes had not come in. They were 
accustomed to such an absence now and 
then, and were not at first frightened; 
but when it grew dark and she did not ap- 
pear, the husband set out with his dogs in 
one direction, and the wife in another, to 
seek their child. Morning came and they 
had not found her. Then the whole 
country-side arose to search for the miss- 
ing Agnes; but day after day and night 
after night passed, and nothing was dis- 
covered of or concerning her, until at 
length all gave up the search in despair 
except the mother. 

One day she had wandered some dis- 
tance from her cottage, thinking she 
might come upon the remains of her 
daughter at the foot of some cliff, when 
she came suddenly instead upon a discon- 
solate-looking creature sitting on a stone 
by the side of a stream. Her hair hung 
in tangles from her head; her clothes were 


tattered, and through the rents her skin 
showed in many places; her cheeks were 
white and worn thin with hunger; the 
hollows were dark under her eyes, and 
they stood out scared and wild. When she 
caught sight of the shepherdess she 
jumped to her feet and would have run 
away, but fell down in a faint. 

At first sight the mother had taken her 
for her own child; but now she saw, with 
a pang of disappointment, that she had 
mistaken. Full of compassion, neverthe- 
less, she said to herself: 

“ If she is not my Agnes she is as much 
in need of help as if she were. If I can 
not be good to my own, I will be as good 
as I can to some other woman’s; and 
though I should scorn to be consoled for 
the loss of one by the presence of an- 
other, I yet may find some gladness in 
rescuing one child from the death which 
has taken the other.” 

Perhaps her words were not just like 
these, but her thoughts were. She took 
up the child and carried her home. And 
this is how Rosamond came to occupy the 
place of the little girl whom she had 
envied in the picture. 


CHAPTER VII. 

ATOTWITHSTANDING the differ- 
^ ences between the two girls, which 
were, indeed, so many that most people 
would have said that they were not in 


32 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


the least alike, they were the same in this: 
that each cared more for her own fancies 
and desires than for anything else in the 
world. But I will tell you another differ- 
ence: the princess was like several chil- 
dren in one — such was the variety of her 
moods — and in one mood she had no recol- 
lection or care about anything whatever 
belonging to a previous mood, not even 
if it had left her but a moment before, 
and had been so violent as to make her 
ready to put her hand in the fire to get 
what she wanted. Plainly, she was the 
mere puppet of her moods; and, more 
than that, any cunning nurse who knew 
her well enough could call or send away 
those moods almost as she pleased, like a 
showman pulling strings behind a show. 
Agnes, on the contrary, seldom changed 
her mood, but kept that of calm, assured 
self-satisfaction. Father or mother had 
never by wise punishment helped her to 
gain a victory over herself and do what 
she did not like or choose, and their folly 
in reasoning with one unreasonable had 
fixed her in her conceit. She would 
actually nod her head to herself in com- 
placent pride that she had stood out 
against them. This, however, was not so 
difficult as to justify even the pride of 
having conquered, seeing she loved them 
so little, and paid so little attention to the 
arguments and persuasions they used. 
Neither, 'when she found herself wrapped 
in the dark folds of the wise woman’s 
cloak, did she behave in the least like the 


princess, for she was not afraid. “ She’ll 
soon set me down,” she said, too self-im- 
portant to suppose that any one would 
dare to do her an injury. 

Whether it be a good thing or bad not 
to be afraid depends on what the fearless- 
ness is founded upon. Some have no fear 
because they have no knowledge of the 
danger; there is nothing fine in that. 
Some are too stupid to be afraid; there is 
nothing fine in that. Some who are not 
easily frightened would yet turn their 
backs and run the moment they are fright- 
ened; such never had more courage than 
fear. But the man who will do his work 
in spite of his fear is a man of true cour- 
age. The fearlessness of Agnes was only 
ignorance: she did not know what it was 
to be hurt; she had never read a single 
story of giant, or ogress, or wolf; and her 
mother had never carried out one of her 
threats of punishment. If the wise 
woman had but pinched her, she would 
have shown herself an abject little coward, 
trembling with fear at every change of 
motion so long as she carried her. 

Nothing such, however, was in the wise 
woman’s plan for the curing of her. On 
and on she carried her without a word. 
She knew that if she set her down she 
would never run after her like the prin- 
cess, at least not before the evil thing was 
already upon her. On and on she went, 
never halting, never letting the light look 
in or Agnes look out. She walked very 
fast, and got home to her cottage very 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


33 


soon after the princess had gone from 
it. 

But she did not set Agnes down either 
in the cottage or in the great hall. She 
had other places, none of them alike. 
The place she had chosen for Agnes was a 
strange one — such a one as is to be found 
nowhere else in the wide world. 

It was a great hollow sphere, made of a 
substance similar to that of the mirror 
which Rosamond had broken, hut differ- 
ently compounded. That substance no 
one could see by itself. It had neither 
door nor window, nor any opening to 
break its perfect roundness. 

The wise woman carried Agnes into a 
dark room, there undressed her, took 
from her hand her knitting needles, and 
put her, naked as she was born, into the 
hollow sphere. 

What sort of a place it was she could 
not tell. She could see nothing but a 
faint, cold, bluish light all about her. 
She could not feel that anything sup- 
ported her, and yet she did not sink. She 
stood for a while perfectly calm, then sat 
down. Nothing bad could happen to her 
— she was so important! And, indeed, 
it was but this: she had only cared for 
Somebody, and now she was going to have 
only Somebody. Her own choice was go- 
ing to be carried a good deal farther for 
her than she would have knowingly car- 
ried it for herself. 

After sitting awhile she wished she had 
something to do, but nothing came. A 


little longer, and it grew wearisome. She 
would see whether she could not walk out 
of the strange luminous dusk that sur- 
rounded her. 

Walk she found she could well enough, 
but walk out she could not. On and on 
she went, keeping as much in a straight 
line as she might, but, after walking until 
she was thoroughly tired, she found her- 
self no nearer out of her prison than be- 
fore. She had not, indeed, advanced a 
single step; for, in whatever direction she 
tried to go, the sphere turned round and 
round, answering her feet accordingly. 
Like a squirrel in its cage, she but kept 
placing another spot of the cunningly sus- 
pended sphere under her feet, and she 
would have been still only at its lowest 
point after walking for ages. 

At length she cried aloud, but there 
was no answer. It grew drearier and 
drearier — in her, that is; outside there 
was no change. Nothing was over head, 
nothing under foot, nothing on either 
hand, but the same pale, faint, bluish 
glimmer. She wept at last, then grew 
very angry, and then sullen; but nobody 
heeded whether she cried or laughed. It 
was all the same to the cold, unmoving 
twilight that surrounded her. On and 
on went the dreary hours — or did they 
go at all? — “no change, no pause, no 
hope,” — on and on till she felt she was 
forgotten, and then she grew strangely 
still and fell asleep. 

The moment she was asleep the wise 


34 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


woman came, lifted her out, and laid her 
in her bosom; fed her with a wonderful 
milk, which she received without knowing 
it; nursed her all the night long, and, just 
ere she woke, laid her back in the blue 
6phere again. 

When first she came to herself, she 
thought the horrors of the preceding 
day had been all a dream of the night. 
But they soon asserted themselves as 
facts, for here they were — nothing to see 
but a cold, blue light, and nothing to do 
but see it! Oh, how slowly the hours 
went by! She lost all notion of time. 
Jf she had been told that she had been 
there twenty years, she would have be- 
lieved it — or twenty minutes — it would 
have been all the same; except for weari- 
ness, time was for her no more. 

Another night came, and still another, 
during both of which the wise woman 
nursed and fed her. But she knew noth- 
ing of that, and the same one dreary day 
seemed ever brooding over her. 

All at once, on the third day, she was 
aware that a naked child was seated be- 
side her. But there was something about 
the child that made her shudder. She 
never looked at Agnes, but sat with her 
chin sunk on her chest, and her eyes 
staring at her own toes. She was the 
color of pale earth, with a pinched nose, 
and a mere slit in her face for a mouth. 

“How ugly she is!” thought Agnes. 
“What business has she beside me?” 

But it was so lonely that she would 


have been glad to play with a serpent, 
and put out her hand to touch her. She 
touched nothing. The child also put out 
her hand — but in the direction away 
from Agnes. And that was well, for if 
she had touched Agnes it would have 
killed her. Then Agnes said, “ Who are 
you?” And the little girl said, “Who 
are you?” “ I am Agnes,” said Agnes; 
and the little girl said, “I am Agnes.” 
Then Agnes thought she was mocking 
her, and said, “You are ugly,” and the 
little girl said, “ You are ugly.” 

Then Agnes lest her temper, and put 
out her hands to seize the little girl; 
but lo! the little girl was gone, and she 
found herself tugging at her own hair. 
She let go, and there was the little girl 
again! Agnes was furious now, and flew 
at her to bite her. But she found her 
teeth in her own arm, and the little girl 
was gone — only to return again; and 
each time she came back she was tenfold 
uglier than before. And now Agnes 
hated her with her whole heart. 

The moment she hated her, it flashed 
upon her with a sickening disgust that the 
child was not another, but her Self, her 
Somebody, and that she was now shut up 
with her forever and ever — no more for 
one moment ever to be alone. In her 
agony of despair, sleep descended and she 
slept. 

When she woke, there was the little 
girl, heedless, ugly, miserable, staring at 
her own toes. All at once the creature 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


35 


began to smile, but with such an odious, 
self-satisfied expression that Agnes felt 
ashamed of seeing her. Then she began 
to pat her own cheeks, to stroke her own 
body, and examine her finger-ends, nod- 
ding her head with satisfaction. Agnes 
felt that there could not be such another 
hateful, ape-like creature, and at the same 
time was perfectly aware she was only 
doing outside of her what she herself had 
been doing, as long as she could remem- 
ber, inside of her. 

She turned sick at herself, and would 
gladly have been put out of existence, but 
for three days the odious companionship 
went on. By the third day Agnes was not 
merely sick, but ashamed of the life she 
had hitherto led, was despicable in her 
own eyes, and astonished that she had 
never seen the truth concerning herself 
before. 

The next morning she awoke in the 
arms of the wise woman; the horror had 
vanished from her sight, and two heav- 
enly eyes were gazing upon her. She 
wept and clung to her, and the more she 
clung the more tenderly did the great 
strong arms close around her. 

When she had lain thus for a while, 
the wise woman carried her into her cot- 
tage, and washed her in the little well; 
then dressed her in clean garments and 
gave her bread and milk. When she 
had eaten it, she called her to her, and 
said very solemnly: 

" Agnes, you must not imagine you are 


cured. That you are ashamed of your- 
self now is no sign that the cause for such 
shame has ceased. In new circumstances, 
especially after you have done well for a 
while, you will be in danger of thinking 
just as much of yourself as before. So, 
beware of yourself. I am going from 
home and leave you in charge of the 
house. Do just as I tell you till my re- 
turn.” 

She then gave her the same directions 
she had formerly given Rosamond — with 
this difference: that she told hereto go 
into the picture hall when she pleased, 
showing her the entrance, against which 
the clock no longer stood, and went away, 
closing the door behind her. 


CHAPTER VIII. 



S soon as she was left 
alone, Agnes set to 
work tidying and 
dusting the cottage, 
made up the fire, 
watered the bed, and 
cleaned the inside of 
the windows; the wise woman herself al- 
ways kept the outside of them clean. 
When she had done, she found her dinner 
— of the same sort she was used to at 
home, but better — in the hole of the 
wall. When she had eaten it, she went 
to look at the pictures. 


36 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


By this time her old disposition had 
begun to rouse again. She had been 
doing her duty, and had in consequence 
begun again to think herself Somebody. 
However strange it may well seem, to do 
one’s duty will make any one conceited 
who only does it sometimes. Those who 
do it always would as soon think of being 
conceited of eating their dinner as of 
doing their duty. What honest boy 
would pride himself on not picking 
pockets? A thief who was trying to re- 
form would. To be conceited of doing 
one’s duty is then a sign of how little one 
does it, and how little one sees what a 
contemptible thing it is not to do it. 
Could any but a low creature be conceited 
of not being contemptible? Until our 
duty becomes to us common as breathing, 
we are poor creatures. 

So Agnes began to stroke herself once 
more, forgetting her late self-stroking 
companion, and never reflecting that she 
was now doing what she had then ab- 
horred. And in this mood she went into 
the picture gallery. 

The first picture she saw represented a 
square in a great city, one side of which 
was occupied by a splendid marble palace 
with great flights of broad steps leading 
up to the door. Between it and the square 
was a marble-paved court with gates of 
brass, at which stood sentries in gorgeous 
uniforms, and to which was affixed the fol- 
lowing proclamation, in letters of gold, 
large enough for Agnes to read: 


" By the will of the king, from this time un- 
til further notice, every stray child found in the 
realm shall be brought without a moment’s de- 
lay to the palace. Whoever shall be found 
having done otherwise shall straightway lose 
his head by the hand of the public execu- 
tioner.” 

Agnes’ heart beat loud, and her face 
flushed. 

“ Can there be such a city in the 
world?” she said to herself. “ If I only 
knew where it was, I should set out for it 
at once. There would be the place for a 
clever girl like me!” 

Her eyes fell on the picture which had 
so enticed Rosamond. It was the very 
country where her father fed his flocks. 
Just around the shoulder of the hill was 
the cottage where her parents lived, where 
she was born, and whence she had been 
carried by the beggar-woman. 

“ Ah,” she said, “ they didn’t know me 
there! They little thought what I could 
be if I had the chance. If I were but in 
this good, kind, loving, generous king’s 
palace, I should soon be such a great lady 
as they never saw! Then they would un- 
derstand what a good girl I had always 
been! And I shouldn’t forget my poor 
parents, like some I have read of. I 
would be generous. I should never be 
selfish and proud, like girls in story- 
books!” 

As she said this, she turned her back 
with disdain upon the picture of her 
home, and setting herself before the pic- 
ture of the palace, stared at it with wide. 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


37 


ambitious eyes, and a heart whose every 
beat was a throb of arrogant self-esteem. 

The shepherd - child was now worse 
than ever the poor princess had been. 
For the wise woman had given her a ter- 
rible lesson, one of which the princess was 
not capable, and she had known what it 
meant; yet here she was as bad as ever, 
therefore worse than before. The ugly 
creature, whose presence had made her so 
miserable, had indeed crept out of sight 
and mind, too — but where was she? 
Nestling in her very heart, where most of 
all she had her company, and least of all 
could see her: The wise woman had 
called her out that Agnes might see what 
sort of a creature she w'as herself; but 
now she was snug in her soul’s bed again, 
and she did not even suspect she was 
there. 

After gazing a while at the palace pic- 
ture, during which her ambitious pride 
rose and rose, she turned yet again in con- 
descending mood, and honored the home 
picture with one stare more. 

“What a poor, miserable spot it is, 
compared with this lordly palace!” she 
said. 

But presently she spied something in 
it she had not seen before, and drew 
nearer. It was the form of a little girl, 
building a bridge of stones over one of 
the hill brooks. 

“Ah, there I am myself!” she said. 
“ That is just how I used to do. No,” 
she resumed, “ it is not me. That snub- 


nosed little fright could never be v ;ant 
for me! It was the frock that made me 
think so. But it is a picture of the place. 
I declare I can see the smoke of the cot- 
tage rising from behind the hill! What 
a dull, dirty, insignificant spot it is! And 
what a life to lead there!” 

She turned once more to the city pic- 
ture. And now a strange thing took 
place. In proportion as the other, to the 
eyes of her mind, receded into the back- 
ground, this, to her present bodily eyes, 
appeared to come forward and assume 
reality. At last, after it had been in this 
way growing upon her for some time, she 
gave a cry of conviction and said aloud: 

“ I do believe it is real! That frame is 
only a trick of the woman to make me 
fancy it a picture, lest I should go and 
make my fortune. She is a witch, the 
ugly old creature! It would serve her 
right to tell the king, and have her pun- 
ished for not taking me to the palace — 
one of his poor lost children he is so fond 
of! I should like to see her ugly old head 
cut off! Anyhow, I will try my luck 
without asking her leave. How she has 
ill-used me!” 

But at that moment she heard the voice 
of the wise woman calling, “ Agnes,” and, 
smoothing her face, she tried to look as 
good as she could, and walked back into 
the cottage. There stood the wise 
woman, looking all around the place, and 
examining her work. She fixed her eyes 
upon Agnes in a way that confused bee 


38 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


and made her cast hers down, for she felt 
as if she were reading her thoughts. The 
wise woman, however, asked no questions, 
but began to talk about her work, approv- 
ing of some of it, which filled her with 
arrogance, and showing how some of it 
might have been done better, which filled 
her with resentment. But the wise 
woman seemed to take no care of what she 
might be thinking, and went straight on 
with her lesson. By the time it was over, 
the power of reading thoughts would not 
have been necessary to a knowledge of 
what was in the mind of Agnes, for it had 
all come to the surface; that is, up into her 
face, which is the surface of the mind. 
Ere it had time to sink down again, the 
wise woman caught up the little mirror 
and held it before her. Agnes saw her 
Somebody — the very embodiment of 
miserable conceit and ugly ill-temper. 
She gave such a scream of horror that the 
wise woman pitied her, and, laying aside 
the mirror, took her upon her knees, and 
talked to her most kindly and solemnly; 
in particular, about the necessity of de- 
stroying the ugly things that come out of 
the heart — so ugly that they make the 
very face over them ugly also. 

And what was Agnes doing all the time 
the wise woman was talking to her? 
Would you believe it? — instead of think- 
ing how to kill the ugly things in her 
heart, she was with all her might resolv- 
ing to be more careful of her face; that is, 
to keep down the things in her heart, so 


that they should not show in her face; she 
was resolving to be a hypocrite as well as 
a self-worshiper. Her heart was wormy, 
and the worms were eating very fast at it 
now. 

Then the wise woman laid her gently 
down upon the heather bed, and she fell 
fast asleep, and had an awful dream about 
her Somebody. 

When she awoke in the morning, in- 
stead of getting up to do the work of the 
house, she lay thinking — to evil purpose. 
In place of taking her dream as a warn- 
ing, and thinking over what the wise 
woman had said the night before, she 
communed with herself in this fashion: 

“ If I stay here longer I shall be miser- 
able. It is nothing better than slavery. 
The old witch shows me horrible things 
in the day to set me dreaming horrible 
things in the night. If I don’t run away, 
that frightful blue prison and the disgust- 
ing girl will come back, and I shall go out 
of my mind. How I do wish I could find 
the way to the good king’s palace! I 
shall go and look at the picture again — 
if it be a picture — as soon as I’ve got 
my clothes on. The work can wait. It’s 
not my work. It’s the old witch’s, and 
she ought to do it herself.” 

She jumped out of bed and hurried on 
her clothes. There was no wise woman 
to be seen, and she hastened into the hall. 
There w T as the picture, w r ith the marble 
palace, and the proclamation shining in 
letters of gold upon .its gates of brass! 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


39 


She stood before it and gazed and gazed; 
and all the time it kept growing upon her 
in some strange way until at last she was 
fully persuaded that it was no picture, 
but a real city square and marble palace, 
seen through a framed opening in the 
wall. She ran up to the frame, stepped 
over it, felt the wind blow upon her 
cheek, heard the sound of a closing door 
behind her, and was free. Free, was she? 
— with that creature inside her? 

The same moment a terrible storm of 
thunder and lightning, wind and rain, 
came on. The uproar was appalling. 
Agnes threw herself upon the ground, hid 
her face in her hands, and there lay until 
it was over. As soon as she felt the sun 
shining on her she rose. There was the 
< city far away on the horizon! Without 
once turning to take a farewell look of 
the place she was leaving, she set off, as 
fast as her feet would carry her, in the di- 
rection of the city. So eager was she that 
again and again she fell, but only to get 
up and run on faster than before. 


CHAPTER IX. 

T HE shepherdess carried Rosamond 
home, gave her a warm bath in the 
tub in which she washed her linen, made 
her some bread and milk, and, after she 
had eaten it, put her to bed in Agnes’ 
crib, where she slept all the rest of that 
day and all the following night. 


When at last she opened her eyes, it 
was to see around her a far poorer cottage 
than the one she had left — very bare and 
uncomfortable indeed she might well 
have thought; but she had come through 
such troubles of late, in the way of hun- 
ger and weariness, and cold and fear, that 
she was not altogether in her ordinary 
mood of fault-finding, and so was able to 
lie enjoying the thought that at length 
she was safe, and going to be fed and kept 
warm. The idea of doing anything in re- 
turn for shelter, and food, and clothes, 
did not, however, even cross her mind. 

But the shepherdess was one of that 
plentiful number who can be wiser con- 
cerning other women’s children than con- 
cerning their own. Such will often give 
you very tolerable hints as to how you 
ought to manage your children, and will 
find fault neatly enough with the system 
you are trying to carry out; but all their 
wisdom goes off in talking, and there is 
none left for doing what they have them- 
selves said. There is one road talk never 
finds, and that is the way into the talker’s 
own hands and feet. And such never 
seem to know themselves — not even 
when they are reading about themselves 
in print. Still, not being specially 
blinded in any direction but their own, 
they can sometimes even act with a little 
sense towards children who are not theirs. 
They are affected with a sort of blindness 
like that which renders some people in- 
capable of seeing, except sideways. 


40 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


She came up to the bed, looked at the 
princess, and saw that she was better. But 
she did not like her much. There was no 
mark of a princess about her, and never 
had been since she began to run alone. 
True, hunger had brought down her fat 
cheeks, but it had not turned down her 
impudent nose, or driven the sullenness 
and greed from her mouth. Nothing but 
the wise woman could do that — and not 
even she without the aid of the princess 
herself. So the shepherdess thought 
what a poor substitute she had got for her 
own lovely Agnes — who was in fact 
equally repulsive, only in a way to which 
she had got used; for the selfishness in 
her love had blinded her to the thin, 
pinched nose, and the mean, self-satisfied 
mouth. It was well for the princess, 
though, sad as it is to say, that the shep- 
herdess did not take to her, for then she 
would most likely have only done her 
harm instead of good. 

“ Now, my girl,” she said, “ you must 
get up and do something. We can’t keep 
idle folk here.” 

“ I’m not a folk,” said Rosamond, “ I’m 
a princess.” 

“A pretty princess — with a nose like 
that! And all in rags, too! If you tell 
such stories, I shall soon let you know 
what I think of you.” 

Rosamond then understood that the 
mere calling herself a princess, without 
anything to show for it, was of no use. 
She obeyed and rose, for she was hungry. 


but she had to sweep the floor ere she had 
anything to eat. 

The shepherd came in to breakfast, and 
was kinder than his wife. He took her 
up in his arms, and would have kissed 
her; but she took it as an insult from a 
man whose hands smelt of tar, and kicked 
and screamed with rage. The poor man, 
finding he had made a mistake, set her 
down at once. But to look at the two, 
one might well have judged it condescen- 
sion rather than rudeness in such a man 
to kiss such a child. He was tall and al- 
most stately, with a thoughtful forehead, 
bright eyes, eagle nose and gentle mouth, 
while the princess was such as I have de- 
scribed her. 

Not content with being set down and 
let alone, she continued to storm and 
scold at the shepherd, crying she was a 
princess, and would like to know what 
right he had to touch her. But he only 
looked down upon her from the height of 
his tall person with a benignant smile, re- 
garding her as a spoiled little ape, whose 
mother had flattered her by calling her a 
princess. 

“ Turn her out of doors, the ungrateful 
hussy!” cried his wife. “With your 
bread and your milk inside her ugly body, 
this is what she gives you for it! Troth, 
I’m paid for carrying home such an ill- 
bred tramp in my arms! My own poor 
angel Agnes! As if that ill-tempered 
toad were one hair like her!” 

These words drove the princess beside 


A DOUBLE STORY. 41 


herself; for those who are most given to 
abuse can least endure it. With fists, and 
feet, and teeth, as was her wont, she 
rushed at the shepherdess, whose hand 
was already raised to deal her a sound 
box on the ear, when a better-appointed 
minister of vengeance suddenly showed 
himself. Bounding in at the cottage door 
came one of the sheep-dogs, who was 
called Prince, and whom I shall not refer 
to with a “ which,” because he was a very 
superior animal indeed, even for a sheep- 
dog, which is the most intelligent of dogs; 
he flew at the princess, knocked her down, 
and commenced shaking her so violently 
as to tear her miserable clothes to pieces. 
Used, however, to mouthing little lambs, 
he took care not to hurt her much, though 
for her good he left her a blue nip or two 
by way of letting her imagine what biting 
might be. His master, knowing he would 
not injure her, thought it better not to 
call him off, and in half a minute he left 
her of his own accord, and casting a 
glance of indignant rebuke behind him as 
he went, walked slowly to the hearth, 
where he laid himself down with his tail 
towards her. She rose, terrified almost to 
death, and would have crept again into 
Agnes’ crib for refuge, but the shepherd- 
ess cried: 

“ Come, come, princess! I’ll have no 
skulking to bed in the good daylight. Go 
and clean your master’s Sunday boots 
there.” 

"I will not!” screamed the indignant 


princess, and ran hurriedly from the 
house. 

“ Prince!” cried the shepherdess; and 
up jumped the dog, and looked in her 
face, wagging his bushy tail. 

“ Fetch her back!” she said, pointing to 
the door. 

With two or three bounds Prince 
caught the princess, again threw her 
down, and, taking her by her clothes, 
dragged her back into the cottage and 
dropped her at his mistress’ feet, where 
she lay like a bundle of rags. 

“ Get up,” said the shepherdess. 

Eosamond got up as pale as death. 

“ Go and clean the boots.” 

“I don’t know how.” 

“Go and try. There are the brushes, 
and yonder is the blacking-pot.” 

Instructing her how to black boots, it 
came into the thought of the shepherdess 
what a fine thing it would be if she could 
teach this miserable little wretch, so for- 
saken and ill-bred, to be a good, well- 
behaved, respectable child. She was 
hardly the woman to do it, but everything 
well-meant is a help, and she had the wis- 
dom to beg her husband to place Prince 
under her orders for a while, and not take 
him to the hill as usual, that he might 
help her in getting the princess into 
order. 

When her husband was gone, and his 
boots, with the aid of her own finishing 
touches, at last quite respectably brushed, 
the shepherdess told the princess that she 


42 


A DOUBLE STORY . 


might go and play for a while, only she 
must not go out of sight of the cottage 
door. 

The princess went right gladly, with 
the firm intention, however, of getting 
out of sight by slow degrees, and then at 
once taking to her heels. But no sooner 
was she over the threshold than the shep- 
herdess said to the dog, “ Watch her!” 
and out shot Prince. 

The moment she saw him, Rosamond 
threw herself on her face, trembling from 
head to foot. But the dog had no quarrel 
with her, and of the violence against 
which he always felt bound to protest in 
dog fashion, there was no sign in the pros- 
trate shape before him, so he poked his 
nose under her, turned her over, and be- 
gan licking her face and hands. When 
she saw that he meant to be friendly, her 
love for animals, which had had no indul- 
gence for a long time, now became 
wide awake, and in a little while they were 
romping and rushing about, the best 
friends in the world. 

Having thus seen one enemy, as she 
thought, changed to a friend, she began 
to resume her former plan, and crept cun- 
ningly farther and farther. At length 
she came to a little hollow, and instantly 
rolled down into it. Finding then that 
she was out of sight of the cottage, she 
ran off at full speed. 

But she had not gone more than a 
dozen paces when she heard a growling 
rush behind her, and the next instant was 


on the ground, with the dog standing 
over her, showing his teeth, and flaming 
at her with his eyes. She threw her arms 
round his neck, and immediately he 
licked her face and let her get up. But 
the moment she would have moved a step 
farther from the cottage, there he was in 
front of her, growling and showing his 
teeth. She saw it was of no use, and went 
back with him. 

Thus was the princess provided with a 
dog for a private tutor — just the right 
sort for her. 

Presently the shepherdess appeared at 
the door and called her. She would have 
disregarded the summons, but Prince did 
his best to let her know that, until she 
could obey herself, she must obey him. 
So she went into the cottage, and there 
the shepherdess ordered her to peel the 
potatoes for dinner. She sulked and re- 
fused. Here Prince could do nothing to 
help his mistress, but she had not to go 
far to find another ally. 

“Very well, Miss Princess!” she said, 
“ we shall soon see how you like to go 
without when dinner-time comes.” 

Now the princess had very little fore- 
sight, and the idea of future hunger 
would have moved her little; but happily, 
from her game of romps with Prince, she 
had begun to be hungry already, and so 
the threat had force. She took the knife 
and began to peel the potatoes. 

By slow degrees the princess improved 
a little. A few more outbreaks of pas- 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


sion, and a few more savage attacks from 
Prince, and she had learned to try and re- 
strain herself when she felt the passion 
eoming on; while a few dinnerless after- 
noons entirely opened her eyes to the ne- 
cessity of working in order to eat. Prince 
was her first, and Hunger her second, dog- 
eounselor. 

But a better thing was that she soon 
grew very fond of Prince. Toward the 
gaining of her affections, he had three ad- 
vantages; first, his nature was inferior to 
hers; next, he was a beast; and, last, she 
was afraid of him; for so spoiled was she 
that she could more easily love what was 
below than what was above her, and a 
beast than one of her own kind, and, in- 
deed, could hardly have ever come to love 
anything much that she did not first learn 
to fear, and the white teeth and flaming 
eyes of the angry Prince were more ter- 
rible to her than anything had yet been 
except those of the wolf, which she had 
now forgotten. Then again, he was such 
a delightful playfellow that, so long as she 
neither lost her temper nor went against 
orders, she might do almost anything she 
pleased with him. In fact, such was his 
influence upon her, that she who had 
scoffed at the wisest woman in the whole 
world, and derided the wishes of her own 
father and mother, came at length to re- 
gard this dog as a superior being, and to 
look up to him as well as love him. And 
this was best of all. 

The improvement upon her in the 


.43 

course of a month was plain. She had 
quite ceased to go into passions, and had 
actually begun to take a little interest in 
her work and try to do it well. 

Still, the change was mostly an outside 
one. I do not mean that she was pretend- 
ing. Indeed, she had never been given to 
pretense of any sort. But the change 
was not in her, only in her mood. A sec- 
ond change of circumstances would have 
soon brought a second change of be- 
havior; and as long as that was pos- 
sible, she continued the same sort of per- 
son she had always been. But if she had 
not gained much, a trifle had been gained 
for her; a little quietness and order of 
mind, and hence a somewhat greater pos- 
sibility of the first idea of right arising 
in it, whereupon she would begin to 
see what a wretched creature she was, and 
must continue until she herself was right. 

Meantime, the wise woman had been 
watching her when she least fancied it, 
and taking note of the change that was 
passing upon her. Out of the large eyes 
of a gentle sheep she had been watching 
her — a sheep that puzzled the shepherd ; 
for every now and then she would appear 
in his flock, and he would catch sight of 
her two or three times in a day, some- 
times for days together, yet he never saw 
her when he looked for her, and never 
when he counted the flock into the fold at 
night. He knew she was not one of his, 
but where could she come from, and 
where could she go to? For there was no 


44 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


other flock within many miles, and he 
never could get near enough to her to see 
whether or not she was marked. Nor was 
Prince of the least use to him for the un- 
raveling of the mystery; for although, as 
often as he told him to fetch the strange 
sheep, he went bounding to her at once, 
it was only to lie down at her feet. 

At length, however, the wise woman 
had made up her mind, and after that the 
strange sheep no longer troubled the shep- 
herd. 

As Rosamond improved the shep- 
herdess grew kinder. She gave her all 
Agnes’ clothes, and began to treat her 
much more like a daughter. Hence she 
had a great deal of liberty after the little 
work required of her was over, and would 
often spend hours at a time with the shep- 
herd, watching the sheep and the dogs, 
and learning a little from seeing how 
Prince, and the others as well, managed 
their charge — how they never touched 
the sheep that did as they were told and 
turned when they were bid, but jumped 
on a disobedient flock, and ran along their 
backs, biting and barking, and half chok- 
ing themselves with mouthfuls of their 
wool. 

Then also she would play with the 
brooks, and learn their songs and build 
bridges over them. And sometimes she 
would be seized with such delight of 
heart that she would spread out her arms 
to the wind, and go rushing up the hill 
till her breath left her, when she would 


tumble down in the heather and lie there 
till it came back again. 

A noticeable change had by this time 
passed also on her countenance. Her 
coarse, shapeless mouth had begun to 
show a glimmer of lines and curves about 
it, and the fat had not returned with the 
roses to her cheeks, so that her eyes 
looked larger than before; while, more 
noteworthy still, the bridge of her nose 
had grown higher, so that it was less of 
the impudent, insignificant thing in- 
herited from a certain great-great-greaU 
grandmother, who had little else to leave 
her. For a long time it had fitted her 
very well, for it was just like her; but now 
there was ground for alteration, and al- 
ready the granny who gave it her would 
not have recognized it. It was growing a 
little liker Prince’s, and Prince’s was a 
long, perceptive, sagacious nose — one that 
was seldom mistaken. 

One day about noon, while the sheep 
were mostly lying down, and the shep- 
herd, having left them to the care of the 
•dogs, was himself stretched under the 
shade of a rock a little way apart, and the 
princess sat knitting, with Prince at her 
feet lying in wait for a snap at a great fly 
— for even he had his follies — Rosamond 
saw a poor woman come toiling up the 
hill, but took little notice of her until she 
was passing, a few yards off, when she 
heard her utter the dog’s name in a low 
voice. 

Immediately on the summons Prince 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


45 


started up and followed her, with hang- 
ing head but gently wagging tail. At 
first the princess thought he was merely 
taking observations, and consulting with 
his nose whether she was respectable or 
not, but she soon saw that he was fol- 
lowing her in meek submission. Then 
she sprang to her feet and cried, “ Prince! 
Prince!” But Prince only turned his 
head and gave her an odd look, as if he 
were trying to smile and could not. 
Then the princess grew angry, and ran 
after him shouting, “ Prince, come here 
directly.” Again Prince turned his head, 
but this time to growj. and show his teeth. 

The princess flew into one of her for- 
gotten rages and, picking up a stone, 
flung it at the woman. Prince turned and 
darted at her, with fury in his eyes and 
his white teeth gleaming. At the awful 
sight the princess turned also and would 
have fled, but he was upon her in a mo- 
ment and threw her to the ground, and 
there she lay. 

It was evening when she came to her- 
self. A cool twilight wind, that somehow 
seemed to come all the way from the stars, 
was blowing upon her. The poor woman 
and Prince, the shepherd and his sheep 
were all gone, and she was left alone with 
the wind upon the heather. 

She felt sad, weak and, perhaps for the 
first time in her life, a little ashamed. 
The violence of which she had been guilty 
had vanished from her spirit, and now lay 
in her memory with the calm morning 


behind it, while in front the quiet, dusky 
night was now closing in the loud shame 
betwixt a double peace. Between the 
two her passion looked ugly. It pained 
her to remember. She felt it was hate- 
ful and hers. 

But alas, Prince was gone! The hor- 
rid woman had taken him away! The 
fury rose again in her heart and raged, 
until it came to her mind how her dear 
Prince would have flown at her throat if 
he had seen her in such a passion. The 
memory calmed her, and she rose and 
went home. There, perhaps, she would 
find Prince, for surely he could never 
have been such a silly dog as to go away 
altogether with a strange woman! 

She opened the door and went in. 
Dogs were asleep all about the cottage, it 
seemed to her, but nowhere was Prince. 
She crept away, to her little bed, and 
cried herself to sleep. 

In the morning the shepherd and shep- 
herdess were indeed glad to find that she 
had come home, for they thought that 
she had run away. 

“ Where is Prince?” she cried, the mo- 
ment she awoke. 

“His mistress has taken him,” an- 
swered the shepherd. 

“ Was that woman his mistress?” 

“ I fancy so. He followed her as if he 
had known her all his life. I am very 
sorry to lose him, though.” 

The poor woman had gone close past 
the rock where the shepherd lay. He saw 


46 


A DOUBLE STORY , . 


her coming, and thought of the strange 
sheep, which had been feeding beside him 
when he lay down. “Who can she be?” 
he said to himself; but when he noted how 
Prince followed her, without even looking 
up at him as he passed, he remembered 
how Prince had come to him. And this 
was how: As he lay in bed one fierce 
winter morning, just about to rise, he 
heard the voice of a woman call to him 
through the storm, “ Shepherd, I have 
brought you a dog. Be good to him. 
I will come again and fetch him away.” 
He dressed as quickly as he could* and 
went to the door. It was half snowed up, 
but on top of the white mound before it 
stood Prince. And now he had gone as 
mysteriously as he had come, and he felt 
sad. 

Rosamond was very sorry, too, and 
hence, when she saw the looks of the shep- 
herd and shepherdess she was able to un- 
derstand them. And she tried for a 
while to behave better to them because of 
their sorrow. So the loss of the dog 
brought them all nearer to each other. 


CHAPTER X. 

FTER the thunder storm Agnes did 
not meet with a single obstruction or 
misadventure. Everybody was strangely 
polite, gave her whatever she desired, and 
answered her questions, but asked none in 
return, and looked all the time as if her 


departure would be a relief. They were 
afraid, in fact, from her appearance, lest 
she should tell them she was lost, when 
they would be bound, on pain of public 
execution, to take her to the palace. 

But no sooner had she entered the city 
than she saw it would hardly do to pre- 
sent herself as a lost child at the palace 
gates; for how were they to know that she 
was not an impostor, especially since she 
really was one, having run away from the 
wise woman? So she wandered about, 
looking at everything until she was 
tired, and bewildered by the noise and 
confusion all around her. The wearier 
she got, the more she was pushed in every 
direction. Having been used to a whole 
hill to wander upon, she was very awk- 
ward in the crowded streets, and often on 
the point of being run over by the horses, 
which seemed to her to be going every 
way, like a frightened flock. She spoke 
to several persons, but no one stopped to 
answer her, and at length, her courage 
giving way, she felt lost indeed and be- 
gan to cry. 

A soldier saw her, and asked her what 
was the matter. 

“ Fve nowhere to go,” she sobbed. 

“ Where’s your mother?” asked the sol- 
dier. 

“ I don’t know,” answered Agnes. “ I 
was carried off by an old woman, who 
then went away and left me. I don’t 
know where she is, or where I am my- 
self.” 



A DOUBLE STORY. 


“ Come,” said the soldier, “ this is a 
case for his majesty.” 

So saying he took her by the hand, led 
her to the palace, and begged an audience 
of the king and queen. The porter 
glanced at Agnes, immediately admitted 
them, and showed them into a great, 
splendid room, where the king and queen 
sat every day to review lost children, in the 
hope of one day thus finding their Rosa- 
mond. But they were by this time begin- 
ning to get tired of it. The moment they 
cast their eyes upon Agnes, the queen 
threw back her head, threw up her hands 
and cried, “ What a miserable, conceited, 
white-faced little ape!” and the king- 
turned upon the soldier in wrath, and 
cried, forgetting his own decree, “ What 
do you mean by bringing such a dirty, 
vulgar-looking, pert creature into my pal- 
ace? The dullest soldier in my army 
could never for a moment imagine a 
child like that one hair’s-breadth like the 
lovely angel we lost!” 

“ I humbly beg your majesty’s pardon,” 
said the soldier, “but what was I to do? 
There stands your majesty’s proclama- 
tion in gold letters on the brazen gates of 
the palace.” 

“ I shall have it taken down,” said the 
king. “ Remove the child.” 

“ Please, your majesty, what am I to do 
with her?” 

“ Take her home with you.” 

“I have six already, sire, and do not 
want her.” 


“ Then drop her where you picked her 
up.” 

“ If I do, sire, some one else will find 
her, and bring her back to your majes- 
ties.” 

“ That will never do,” said the king. 
“ I can not bear to look at her.” 

“ For all her ugliness,” said the queen, 
“ she is plainly lost, and so is our Rosa- 
mond.” 

“ It may be only a pretense to get into 
the palace,” said the king. 

“Take her to the head • scullion, sol- 
dier,” said the queen, “and tell her to 
make her useful. If she should find out 
that she has been pretending to be lost, 
she must let me know.” 

The soldier was so anxious to get rid of 
her that he caught her up in his arms, 
hurried from the room, found his way to 
the scullery, and gave her, trembling with 
fear, in charge of the head maid with the 
queen’s message. 

As it was evident that the queen had no 
favor for her, the servants did as they 
pleased with her, and often treated her 
harshly. Not one among them liked her, 
nor was it any wonder, seeing that, with 
every step she took from the wise 
woman’s house, she had grown more con- 
temptible, for she had grown more con- 
ceited. Every civil answer given her she 
attributed to the impression she made, 
not to the desire to get rid of her; and 
every kindness, to approbation of her 
looks and speech, instead of friendliness 


48 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


to a lonely child. Hence, by this time 
she was twice as odious as before; for who- 
ever has had such severe treatment as the 
wise woman gave her, and is not the bet- 
ter for it, always grows worse than before. 
They drove her about, boxed her ears on 
the smallest provocation, laid everything 
to her charge, called her all manner of 
contemptuous names, jeered and scoffed at 
her awkwardness, and made her life so 
miserable that she was in a fair way to 
forget everything she had learned, and 
know nothing but how to clean saucepans 
and kettles. 

They would not, however, have been so 
hard upon her but for her irritating be- 
havior. She dared not refuse to do as 
she was told, but she obeyed now with a 
pursed-up mouth, and now with a con- 
temptuous smile. The only thing that 
sustained her was her constant contriving 
how to get out of the painful position in 
which she found herself. There is but 
one true way, however, of getting out of 
any position we may be in, and that is to 
do the work of it so well that we grow fit 
for a better. I need not say this was not 
the plan upon which Agnes was cunning 
enough to fix. 

She had soon learned from the talk 
around her the reason of the proclama- 
tion which had brought her hither. 

"Was the lost princess so very beauti- 
ful ?” she said one day to the youngest of 
her fellow-servants. 

“Beautiful!” screamed the maid, “she 


was just the ugliest little toad you ever set 
eyes upon.” 

“ What was she like?” asked Agnes. 

“ She was about your size and quite as 
ugly, only not in the same way; for she 
had red cheeks, and a cocked little nose, 
and the biggest, ugliest mouth you ever 
saw!” 

Agnes fell a-thinking. 

“ Is there a picture of her anywhere in 
the palace?” she asked. 

“ How should I know? You can ask a 
housemaid.” 

Agnes soon learned that there was one, 
and contrived to get a peep at it. Then 
she was certain of what she had suspected 
from the description given her: namely, 
that she was the same she had seen in the 
picture at the wise woman’s house. The 
conclusion followed that the lost princess 
must be staying with her father and 
mother, for assuredly, in the picture, she 
wore one of her frocks. 

She went to the head scullion and, 
with humble manner but proud heart, 
begged her to procure for her the favor 
of a word with the queen. 

“ A likely thing, indeed!” was the an- 
swer, accompanied by a box on the ear. 

She tried the head cook next, but with 
no better success, and so was driven to 
her meditations again, the result of 
which w r as that she began to drop hints 
that she knew something about the prin- 
cess. This came at length to the queen’s 
ears, and she sent for her. 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


Absorbed in her own selfish ambitions, 
Agnes never thought of the risk to which 
she was about to expose her parents, but 
told the queen that in her wanderings she 
had caught sight of just such a lovely 
creature as she described the princess, 
only dressed like a peasant, saying that, 
if the king would permit her to go and 
look for her, she had little doubt of 
bringing her back safe and sound within 
a few weeks. 

But, although she spoke the truth, she 
had such a look of cunning on her 
pinched face, that the queen could not 
possibly trust her, but believed that she 
made the proposal merely to get away and 
have money given her for her journey. 
Still there was a chance, and she would 
not say anything until she had consulted 
the king. 

Then they had Agnes up before the 
lord chancellor, who, after much ques- 
tioning of her, arrived at last, he thought, 
at some notion of the part of the country 
described by her; that was, if she spoke 
the truth, which, from her looks and be- 
havior, he also considered entirely doubt- 
ful. Thereupon she was ordered back to 
the kitchen, and a band of soldiers, under 
a clever lawyer, sent out to search every 
foot of the supposed region. They were 
commanded not to return until they 
brought with them, bound hand and foot, 
such a shepherd pair as that of which they 
received a full description. 

And now Agnes was worse off than be- 


49 

fore. For to her other miseries was 
added the fear of what would befall her 
when it was discovered that the persons 
of whom they were in quest, and whom 
she was certain they must find, "were her 
own father and mother. 

By this time the king and queen were 
so tired of seeing lost children, genuine 
or pretended — for they cared for no 
child any longer than there seemed a 
chance of its turning out their child — 
that, with this new hope, which, however 
poor and vague at first, soon began to 
grow upon such imaginations as they had, 
they commanded the proclamation to be 
taken down from the palace gates, and 
directed the various sentries to admit no 
child whatever, lost or found, be the rea- 
son or pretense what it might, until fur- 
ther orders. 

“Fm sick of children!” said the king 
to his secretary, as he finished dictating 
the direction. 


CHAPTER XI. 

TER Prince was 
gone, the princess 
by degrees fell back 
into some of her old 
bad ways, from 
which only the pres- 
ence of the dog, not 
her own betterment, 
had kept her. She never grew nearly so 




50 


A DOUBLE STORY . 


selfish again, but she began to let her 
angry old self lift up its head once more, 
until by and by she grew so bad that the 
shepherdess declared she should not stop 
in the house a day longer, for she was 
quite unendurable. 

“ It is all very well for you, husband,” 
she said, “for you haven’t her all day 
about you and only see the best of her. 
But if you had her in work instead of 
play-hours, you would like her no better 
than I do. And then it’s not her ugly 
passions only, but when she’s in one of 
her tantrums it’s impossible to get any 
work out of her. At such times she’s 
just as obstinate as — as — as — ” 

She was going to say “ as Agnes,” but 
the feelings of a mother overcame her 
and she could not utter the word. 

“ In fact,” she said instead, “ she makes 
my life miserable.” 

The shepherd felt he had no right to 
tell his wife she must submit to have her 
life made miserable, and therefore, al- 
though he was really much attached to 
Rosamond, he would not interfere, and 
the shepherdess told her she must look 
out for another place. 

The princess was, however, this much 
better than before, even in respect of her 
passions, that they were not quite so bad, 
and after one was over she was really 
ashamed of it. But not once, ever since 
the departure of Prince, had she tried to 
check the rush of the evil temper when it 
came upon her. She hated it when she 


was out of it, and that was something; 
but while she was in it she went full swing 
with it wherever the prince of the power 
of it pleased to carry her. Nor was this 
all; although she might by this time have 
known well enough that as soon as she 
wa§ out of it she was certain to be 
ashamed of it, she would yet justify it to 
herself with twenty different arguments 
that looked very good at the time, but 
would have looked very poor indeed after- 
wards, if then she had remembered them. 

She was not sorry to leave the shep- 
herd’s cottage, for she felt certain of soon 
finding her way back to her father and 
mother; and she would, indeed, have set 
out long before but that her foot had 
somehow got hurt when Prince gave her 
his last admonition, and she had never 
since been able for long walks, which she 
sometimes blamed as the cause of her 
temper growing worse. But if people are 
good-tempered only when they are com- 
fortable, what thanks have they? Her 
foot was now much better, and as soon 
as the shepherdess had thus spoken, she 
resolved to set out at once, and work or 
beg her way home. At the moment she 
was quite unmindful of what she owed 
the good people, and, indeed, was as yet 
incapable of understanding a tenth part 
of her obligation to them. So she bade 
them good-by without a tear, and limped 
her way down the hill, leaving the shep- 
herdess weeping and the shepherd looking 
very grave. 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


51 



When she reached the valley she fol- slowly along the road with a burden of 
lowed the course of the stream, knowing heather upon her back, and presently 
only that it would lead her away from the passed her, but had gone only a few paces 

further when she heard 
her calling after her in 
a kind old voice. 


Into richer lands where were farms and cattle. 


“ Your shoe-tie is 
loose, my child.” 

But Kosamond was 
growing tired, for her 
foot had become pain 
ful, and so she was 
cross, and neither re- 


hill where the sheep fed, into richer turned answer nor paid heed to the warn- 
lands, where were farms and cattle, ing. For when we are cross all our other 
Bounding one of the roots of the hill, she faults grow busy, and poke up their ugl} 
saw before her a poor woman walking heads like maggots, and the princess old 


52 


A DOUBLE STOliY. 


dislike to doing anything that came to her 
with the least air of advice about it re- 
turned in full force. 

" My child/’ said the woman again, " if 
you don’t fasten your shoe-tie it will make 
you fall.” 

" Mind your own business!” said Rosa- 
mond, without even turning her head, 
and had not gone more than three steps 
when she fell flat on her face on the path. 
She tried to get up, but the effort forced 
from her a scream, for she had sprained 
the ankle of the foot that was already 
lame. 

The old woman was by her side in- 
stantly. 

"Where are you hurt, child?” she 
asked, throwing down her burden and 
kneeling beside her. 

" Go away!” screamed Rosamond. 
"You made me fall, you bad woman!” 

The woman made no reply, but began 
to feel her joints and soon discovered the 
sprain. Then, in spite of Rosamond’s 
abuse, and the violent pushes and even 
kicks she gave her, she took the hurt 
ankle in her hands, and stroked and 
pressed it, gently kneading it, as it were, 
with her thumbs, as if coaxing every 
particle of the muscles into its right place. 
Nor had she done so long before Rosa- 
mond lay still. At length she ceased and 
said: 

" Now, my child, you may get up.” 

" I can’t get up, and I’m not your 
child!” cried Rosamond. " Go away.” 


Without another word the woman left 
her, took up her burden and continued 
her journey. 

In a little while Rosamond tried to get 
up, and not only succeeded but found 
she could walk; and, indeed, discovered 
that her ankle and foot also were now 
perfectly well. 

"I wasn’t much hurt after all,” she 
said to herself, nor sent a single grateful 
thought after the poor woman, whom she 
speedily passed once more upon the road 
without even a greeting. 

Late in the afternoon she came to a 
spot where the path divided into two, and 
was taking the one she liked the look of 
better, when she started at the sound of 
the poor woman’s voice, whom she 
thought she had left far behind, again 
calling her. She looked round and there 
she was, toiling under her load of heather 
as before. 

"You are taking the wrong turn there,” 
she cried. 

"How can you tell that?” said Rosa- 
mond. " You know nothing about where 
I want to go.” 

" I know that road will take you where 
you don’t want to go,” said the woman. 

" I shall know when I get there, then,” 
returned Rosamond, "and no thanks to 
you.” 

She set off running. The woman took 
the other path and was soon out of sight. 

By and by Rosamond found herself in 
the midst of a peat-moss — a flat, lonely. 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


53 


dismal black country. She thought, 
however, that the road would soon lead 
her across to the other side of it among 
the farms, and went on without anxiety. 
But the stream, which had hitherto been 
her guide, had now vanished; and when it 
began to grow dark Rosamond found that 
she could no longer distinguish the 
track. She turned, therefore, but only to 
find that the same darkness covered it be- 
hind as well as before. Still she made the 
attempt to go back by keeping as direct a 
line as she could, for the path was straight 
as an arrow. But she could not see 
enough even to start her in a line, and she 
had not gone far before she found herself 
hemmed in, apparently, on every side by 
ditches and pools of black, dismal, slimy 
water. And now it was so dark that she 
could see nothing more than the gleam of 
a bit of clear sky now and then in the 
water. Again and again she stepped 
knee-deep in black mud, and once 
tumbled down in the shallow edge of a 
terrible pool, after which she gave up the 
attempt to escape the meshes of the 
watery net, stood still, and began to cry 
bitterly, despairingly. She saw now that 
her unreasonable anger had made her 
foolish as well as rude, and felt that she 
was justly punished for her wickedness to 
the poor woman who had been so friendly 
to her. What would Prince think of her 
if he knew? She cast herself on the 
ground, hungry, and cold, and weary. 

Presently she thought she saw long. 


creatures come heaving out of the black 
pool. A toad jumped upon her, and she 
shrieked and sprang to her feet, and 
would have run away headlong, when she 
spied in the distance a faint glimmer. 
She thought it was a Will-o’-the-wisp. 
What could he be after? Was he looking 
for her? She dared not run, lest he 
should see and pounce upon her. The 
light came nearer and grew brighter and 
larger. Plainly the little fiend was look- 
ing for her — he would torment her. 
After many twistings and turnings among 
the pools, it came straight towards her, 
and she would have shrieked but that ter- 
ror made her dumb. 

It came nearer and nearer, and lo! it 
was borne by a dark figure, with a burden 
on its back; it was the poor woman, and no 
demon, that was looking for her. She 
gave a scream of joy, fell down weeping at 
her feet and clasped her knees. Then 
the poor woman threw away her burden, 
laid down her lantern, took the princess 
up in her arms, folded her cloak around 
her, and having taken up her lantern 
again, carried her slowly and carefully 
through the midst of the black pools, 
winding hither and thither. All night 
long she carried her thus, slowly and 
wearily, until at length the darkness grew 
a little thinner, an uncertain hint of light 
came from the east, and the poor woman, 
stopping on the brow of a little hill, 
opened her cloak and set the princess 
down. 


54 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


“ I can carry you no further,” she said. 
“Sit there on the grass till the night 
comes. I will stand here by you.” 

Rosamond had been asleep. Now she 
rubbed her eyes and looked, but it was 
too dark to see anything more than that 
there was a sky over her head. Slowly 
the light grew, until she could see the 
form of the poor woman standing in front 
of her; and, as it went on growing, she 
began to think she had seen her some- 
where before, till all at once she thought 
of the wise woman, and saw it must be 
she. Then she was so ashamed that she 
bent down her head and could look at her 
no longer. But the poor woman spoke, 
and the voice was that of the wise woman, 
and every word went deep into the heart 
of the princess. 

“ Rosamond,” she said, “ all this time, 
ever since I carried you from your father’s 
palace, I have been doing what I could to 
make you a lovely creature; ask yourself 
how far I have succeeded.” 

All her past story, since she found her- 
self first under the wise woman’s cloak, 
arose and glided past the inner eyes of the 
princess, and she saw and in a measure 
understood it all. But she sat with her 
eyes on the ground and made no sign. 

Then said the wise woman: 

“Below there is the forest which sur- 
rounds my house. I am going home. If 
you please to come there to me I will help 
you, in a way I could not do now, to be 
good and lovely. I will wait you there all 


day, but if you start at once you may be 
there long before noon. I shall have your 
breakfast waiting for you. One thing 
more: the beasts have not yet all gone 
home to their holes, but I give you my 
word not one will touch you so long as 
you keep coming nearer to my house.” 

She ceased. Rosamond sat waiting to 
hear something more, but nothing came. 
She looked up; she was alone. 

Alone once more! Always being left 
alone, because she would not yield to 
what was right! Oh, how safe she had 
felt under the wise woman’s cloak! She 
had indeed been good to her, and she had 
in return behaved like one of the hyenas 
of the awful wood. What a wonderful 
house it was she lived in! And again all 
her own story came up into her brain 
from her repentant heart. 

“ Why didn’t she take me with her?” 
she said. “ I would have gone gladly.” 
And she wept. But her own conscience 
told her that, in the very middle of her 
shame and desire to be good, she had re- 
turned no answer to the words of the wise 
woman; she had sat like a tree-stump and 
done nothing. She tried to say there was 
nothing to be done, but she knew at once 
that she could have told the wise woman 
she had been very wicked and asked her 
to take her with her. Now there was 
nothing to be done. 

“Nothing to be done!” said her con- 
science. “ Can you not rise and walk 
down the hill and through the wood?” 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


55 


“ But the wild beasts!" 

“ There it is! You don't believe the 
wise woman yet! Did she not tell you 
the beasts would not touch you?" 

“ But they are so horrid!" 

“ Yes, they are, but it would be far bet- 
ter to be eaten up alive by them than live 
on, such a worthless creature as you are. 
Why, you're not fit to be thought about 
by any but bad, ugly creatures." 

This was how herself talked to her. 


CHAPTER XII. 

LL at once Rosamond 
jumped to her feet, 
and ran at full speed 
down the hill and into 
the wood. She heard 
howlings and yellings 
on all sides of her, but 
she ran straight on as near as she could 
judge. Her spirits rose as she ran. Sud- 
denly she saw before her, in the dusk of 
the thick wood, a group of some dozen 
wolves and hyenas, standing all together 
right in her way, with their green eyes 
fixed upon her staring. She faltered one 
step, then bethought her of what the wise 
woman had promised, and, keeping 
straight on, dashed right into the middle 
of them. They fled howling, as if she 
had struck them with fire. She was no 
more afraid after that and, ere the sun 
was up, she was out of the wood and upon 


the heath, which no bad thing could step 
upon and live. With the first peep of the 
sun above the horizon, she saw the little 
cottage before her and ran as fast as she 
could toward it. When she came near it 
she saw that the door was open, and ran 
straight into the outstretched arms of the 
wise woman. 

The wise woman kissed her and stroked 
her hair, set her down by the fire and 
gave her a bowl of bread and milk. 

When she had eaten it, she drew her 
before her where she sat and spoke to her 
thus: 

“ Rosamond, if you would be a blessed 
creature instead of a mere wretch, you 
must submit to be tried." 

“ Is that something terrible?" asked 
the princess, turning white. 

“No, my child, but it is something very 
difficult to come well out of. Nobody 
who has not been tried knows how diffi- 
cult it is; but whoever has come well out 
of it — and those who do not overcome 
never do come out of it — always looks 
back with horror, not on what she has 
come through, but on the very idea of the 
possibility of having failed, and being still 
the same miserable creature as before." 

“ You will tell me what it is before it 
begins?" said the princess. 

“ I will not tell you exactly. But I 
will tell you some things to help you. 
One great danger is that perhaps you will 
think you are in it before it has really 
begun, and say to yourself, ‘ Oh, this is 



56 


A DOUBLE STORY 


really nothing to me. It may be a trial 
to some, but for me I am sure it is not 
worth mentioning.’ And then, before you 
know, it will be upon you, and you will 
fail utterly and shamefully.” 

“ I will be very, very careful,” said the 
princess. “ Only don’t let me be fright- 
ened.” 

“You shall not be frightened, except 
it be your own doing. You are already a 
brave girl, and there is no occasion to try 
you more that way. I saw how you 
rushed into the middle of the ugly crea- 
tures; and, as they ran from you, so will 
all kinds of evil things, as long as you 
keep them outside of you, and do not 
open the cottage of your heart to let them 
in. I will tell you something more about 
what you will have to go through. 

“Nobody can be a real princess — do 
not imagine you have yet been anything 
but a mock one — until she is a princess 
over herself; that is, until when she finds 
herself unwilling to do the thing that is 
right, she makes herself do it. So long 
as any mood she is in makes her do the 
thing she will be sorry for when that 
mood is over, she is a slave and no prin- 
cess. A princess is able to do what is 
right, even should she unhappily be in a 
mood that would make another unable to 
do it. For instance, if you should be 
cross and angry, you are not a whit less 
bound to be just, yes, kind, even — a thing 
most difficult in such a mood — though 
ease itself in a good mood, loving and 


sweet. Whoever does what she is bound 
to do, be she the dirtiest girl in the street, 
is a princess, worshipful, honorable. Nay, 
more; her might goes further than she 
could send it, for if she act so, the evil 
mood will wither and die and leave her 
loving and clean. Do you understand me, 
dear Kosamond?” 

As she spoke the wise woman laid her 
hand on her head and looked — oh, so 
lovingly — into her eyes. 

“ I am not sure,” said the princess, 
humbly. 

“ Perhaps you will understand me bet- 
ter if I say it just comes to this: that you 
must not do what is wrong, however much 
you are inclined to do it, and you must do 
what is right, however much you are dis- 
inclined to do it.” 

“ I understand that,” said the princess. 

“I am going, then, to put you in one 
of the mood-chambers, of which I have 
many in the house. Its mood will come 
upon you, and you will have to deal with, 
it.” 

She rose and took her by the hand. 
The princess trembled a little but never 
thought ''of resisting. 

The wise woman led her into the great 
hall with the pictures, and through a door 
at the farther end, opening upon another 
large hall, which was circular, and had 
doors close to each other all around it. 
Of these she opened one, pushed the prin- 
cess gently in and closed it behind her. 

The princess found herself in her old 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


57 



nursery. Her little white rabbit came to 
meet her in a lumping canter, as if his 
back were going to tumble over his head. 
Her nurse, in her rocking-chair by 
the chimney corner, sat just as she 
had used to. The fire burned 
brightly, and on the table were 
many of her wonderful toys, 
on which, however, she now 
looked with some con- 
tempt. Her nurse did 
not seem at all sur- 
prised to see her, 
any more than if 
the princess had 
just gone from 
the room 
and re- 
turned 
again. 

“ Oh, how 
different I 
now am from 
what I used to 
be!” thought the 
princess to herself, 
looking from her toys 
to her nurse. “ The 
wise woman has done me 
so much good already! I 
will go and see mamma at 
once, and tell her I am very 
glad to be at home again and 
very sorry indeed that I was so naughty.” 
And, acting upon this good resolution, she 
started for the door. 


A lake was in 
— See 


“Your queen-mamma, princess, can 
not see you now,” said her nurse. 

“ I have yet to learn that it is my part 
to take orders from a servant,” said 
the princess, with temper and dig- 
nity. 

“ I beg your pardon, princess,” 
returned her nurse, politely, 
“but it is my duty to tell 
you that your queen- 
mamma is at this mo- 
ment engaged. She 
is alone with her 
most intimate 
friend, the 
Princess o f 
the Frozen 
Regions.” 

“ I shall 
see for 
myself,” re- 
turned the 
princess, brid- 
ling, and walked 
to the door. 

Now, little bunny, 
leap-frogging near the 
door, happened at that 
moment to get about her 
feet, just as she was going to 
open it, so that she tripped 
and fell against it, striking her 
forehead a good blow. She 
caught up the rabbit in a rage, and cry- 
ing, “It is all your fault, you ugly old 
wretch!” threw it in her nurse’s face. 


the middle of it. 
page 58. 




58 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


Her nurse caught the rabbit and held it 
to her face, as if seeking to soothe its 
fright. But the rabbit looked very limp 
and odd, and, to her amazement, Rosa- 
mond presently saw that the thing was no 
rabbit, but a pocket-handkerchief. The 
next moment she removed it from her 
face, and Rosamond beheld — not her 
nurse, but the wise woman standing on 
her own hearth, while she herself stood 
by the door leading from the cottage into 
the hall. 

“ First trial a failure,” said the wise 
woman quietly. 

Overcome with shame, Rosamond ran 
to her, fell down on her knees, and hid 
her face in her dress. 

“Need I say anything?” said the wise 
woman, stroking her hair. 

“No, no!” cried the princess. “I am 
horrid!” 

“ You know now the kind of thing you 
have to meet;. are you ready to try again?” 

“ May I try again?” cried the princess, 
jumping up. “ Fm ready. I do not 
think I shall fail this time .” 1 

“ The trial will be harder.” 

Rosamond drew in her breath and set 
her teeth. The wise woman looked at 
her pitifully, but took her by the hand, 
led her to the round hall, opened the same 
door and closed it after her. 

The princess expected to find herself 
again in the nursery, but in the wise 
woman’s house no one ever has the same 
trial twice. She was in a beautiful gar- 


den, full of blossoming trees and the love- 
liest roses and lilies. A lake was in the 
middle of it with a tiny boat. So de* 
lightful was it that Rosamond forgot all 
about how or why she had come there, 
and lost herself in the joy of the flowers, 
and the trees, and the water. Presently 
came the shout of a child, merry and glad, 
and from a clump of tulip trees rushed a 
lovely little boy, with his arms stretched 
out to her. She was charmed at the sight, 
ran to meet him, caught him up in her 
arms, kissed him and could hardly let him 
go again. But the moment she set him 
down he ran from her toward the lake, 
looking back as he ran and crying, 
“ Come, come!” 

She followed. He made straight for 
the boat, clambered into it, and held out 
his hand to help her in. Then he caught 
up the little boat-hook and pushed away 
from the shore; there was a great white 
flower floating a few yards off, and that 
was the little fellow’s goal. But alas! no 
sooner had Rosamond caught sight of it, 
huge and glowing as a harvest moon, 
than she felt a great desire to have it her- 
self. The boy, however, was in the bow 
of the boat and caught it first. It had a 
long stem, reaching down to the bottom 
of the water, and for a moment he tugged 
at it in vain, but at last it gave way so 
suddenly that he tumbled back with the 
flower into the bottom of the boat. Then 
Rosamond, almost wild at the danger it 
was in as he struggled to rise, hurried to 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


59 


save it, but somehow between them it 
came in pieces, and all its petals of fretted 
silver were scattered about the boat. 
When the boy got up and saw the ruin his 
companion had occasioned, he burst into 
tears, and, having the long stalk of the 
flower still in his hand, struck her with it 
across the face. It did not hurt her 
much, for he was a very little fellow, but 
it was wet and slimy. She tumbled rather 
than rushed at him, seized him in her 
arms, tore it from his frightened grasp 
and flung him into the water. His head 
struck on the boat as he fell and he sank 
at once to the bottom, where he lay look- 
ing up at her with white face and open 
eyes. 

The moment she saw the consequences 
of her deed, she was filled with horrible 
dismay. She tried hard to reach down 
to him through the water, but it was far 
deeper than it looked, and she could not. 
Neither could she get her eyes to leave 
the white face; its eyes fascinated and 
fixed hers; and there she lay, leaning over 
the boat, and staring at the death she. 
had made. But a voice crying, “Ally! 
Ally!” shot to her heart, and, springing 
to her feet, she saw a lovely lady come 
running down the grass to the brink of 
the water with her hair flying about her 
head. 

“ Where is my Ally!” she shrieked. 

But Rosamond could not answer, and 
only stared at the lady, as she had before 
stared at her drowned boy. 


Then the lady caught sight of the dead 
thing at the bottom of the water, and 
rushed in, and plunging down, struggled 
and groped until she reached it. Then 
she rose and stood up with the dead body 
of her little son in her arms, his head 
hanging back and the water streaming 
from him. 

“ See what you have made of him, 
Rosamond!” she said, holding the body 
out to her; “ and this is your second trial, 
and also a failure.” 

The dead child melted away from her 
arms, and there she stood, the wise 
woman, on her own hearth, while Rosa- 
mond found herself beside the little well 
on the floor of the cottage, with one arm 
wet up to the shoulder. She threw her- 
self on the heather bed, and wept from 
relief and vexation both. 

The wise woman walked out of the cot- 
tage, shut the door and left her alone. 
Rosamond was sobbing so that she did not 
hear her go. When at length she looked 
up and saw that the wise woman was 
gone, her misery returned afresh and ten- 
fold, and she wept and wailed. The 
hours passed, the shadows of evening be- 
gan to fall and the wise woman entered. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

/ T V HE wise woman went straight to the 
bed, and, taking Rosamond in her 
arms, sat down with her by the fire. 


60 


A DOUBLE STORY . 


“My poor child!” she said. “Two 
terrible failures! And the more the 
harder! They get stronger and stronger. 
What is to be done?” 

“Couldn’t you help me?” said Rosa- 
mond piteously. 

“Perhaps I could, now you ask me,” 
answered the wise woman. “When you 
are ready to try again we shall see.” 

“I am very tired of myself,” said the 
princess. “But I can’t rest till I try 
again.” 

“That is the only way to get rid of 
your weary, shadowy self, and find your 
stronger, true self. Come, my child, I 
will help you all I can, for now I can 
help you.” 

Yet again she led her to the same door, 
and seemed to the princess to send her yet 
again alone into the room. She was in a 
forest, a place half wild, half tended. 
The trees were grand and full of the love- 
liest birds, of all glowing, gleaming and 
radiant colors, which, unlike the brilliant 
birds we know in our world, sang deli- 
ciously, every one according to his color. 
The trees were not at all crowded, hut 
their leaves were so thick, and their boughs 
spread so far, straight through. All the 
gentle creatures of the forest were there, 
but no creatures that killed, not even a 
weazel to kill the rabbits or a beetle to eat 
the snails out of their striped shells. As 
to the butterflies, words would but wrong 
them if they tried to tell how gorgeous 
they were. The princess’ delight was so 


great that she neither laughed nor ran, 
but walked about with a solemn counten- 
ance and stately step. 

“ But where are the flowers?” she said 
to herself at length. 

They were nowhere. Neither on the 
high trees, nor on the few shrubs that 
grew here and there among them, were 
there any blossoms; and in the grass that 
grew everywhere there was not a single 
flower to be seen. 

“Ah, well!” said Rosamond again to 
herself, “ where all the birds and butter- 
flies are living flowers, we can do without 
the other sort.” 

Still she could not help feeling that 
flowers were wanted to make the beauty 
of the forest complete. 

Suddenly she came out on a little open 
glade; and there, on the root of a great 
oak, sat the loveliest little girl, with her 
lap full of flowers of all colors, but of 
such kinds as Rosamond had never before 
seen. She was playing with them — 
burying her hands in them, tumbling 
them about, and every now and then pick- 
ing one from the rest and throwing it 
away. All the time she never smiled, ex- 
cept with her eyes, which were as full as 
they could hold of the laughter of the 
spirit — a laughter which in this world is 
never heard, only sets the eyes alight with 
a liquid shining. Rosamond drew nearer, 
for the wonderful creature would have 
drawn a tiger to her side and tamed him 
on the way. A few yards from her she 


A DOUBLE STOBT. 


61 



came upon one of her castaway flowers, 
and stooped to pick it up, as well she 
might where none grew save in her own 
longing. But to her 
amazement she found, 
instead of a flower 
thrown away to wither, 
one fast rooted and 
quite at home. She 
left it and went to an- 


“ Don’t! don’t!” cried the child. “ My 
flowers can not live in your hands.” 
Rosamond looked at the flower. It 
was withered al- 
ready. She threw it 
r from her offended. 


Trees full of loveliest birds. — See page 60 


. sm- 


other, but it also was fast in the soil and 
growing comfortably in the warm grass. 

What could it mean? One after another 
she tried, until at length she was satisfied 
that it was the same with every flower 
the little girl threw from her lap. 

She watched then until she saw her 
throw one and instantly bounded to the 
spot. But the flower had been quicker 
than she; there it grew, fast fixed in the 
earth, and, she thought, looking at her The child rose, with difficulty keeping her 
roguishly. Something evil moved in her lapful together, picked it up, carried it 
and she plucked it. back, sat down again, spoke to it, sang to 


62 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


it, kissed it — oh, such a sweet, childish 
little song! — the princess never could re- 
call a word of it — and threw it away. 
XJp rose its little head, and there it was, 
busy growing again. 

Rosamond’s bad temper soon gave way; 
the beauty and sweetness of the child had 
overcome it; and, anxious to make friends 
with her, she drew near and said: 

“Won’t you give me a little flower, 
please, you beautiful child?” 

“ There they are; they are all for you,” 
answered the child, pointing with her out- 
stretched arm and forefinger all round. 

“ But you told me a minute ago not to 
touch them.” 

“Yes, indeed, I did.” 

“They can’t be mine, if I’m not to 
touch them.” 

“ If, to call them yours, you must kill 
them, then they are not yours, and never, 
never can be yours. They are nobody’s 
when they are dead.” 

“ But you don’t kill them.” 

“I don’t pull them; I throw them 
away. I live them.” 

“ How is it that you make them grow?” 

“ I say, ‘ You darling!’ and throw it 
away, and there it is.” 

“ Where do you get them?” 

“ In my lap.” 

“I wish you would let me throw one 
away.” 

“ Have you got any in your lap? Let 
me see.” 

“No, I have none.” 


“Then you can’t throw one away, if 
you haven’t got one.” 

“ You are mocking me!” cried the prin- 
cess. 

“I am not mocking you,” said the 
child, looking her full in the face, with 
reproach in her large blue eyes. 

“ Oh, that’s where the flowers come 
from!” said the princess to herself, the 
moment she saw them, hardly knowing 
what she meant. 

Then the child rose as if hurt, and 
quickly threw away all the flowers she 
had in her lap, but one by one, and with- 
out any sign of anger. When they were 
all gone she stood a moment, and then, in 
a kind of chanting cry, called two or 
three times, “ Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!” 

A glad, low cry, like the whinny of a 
horse, answered, and presently, out of the 
wood on the opposite side of the glade, 
came gently trotting the loveliest little 
snow-white pony, with great shining blue 
wings, half lifted from his shoulders. 
Straight toward the little girl, neither 
hurrying nor lingering, he trotted with 
light, elastic tread. 

Rosamond’s love for animals broke into 
a perfect passion of delight at the vision. 
She rushed to meet the pony with such 
haste that, although clearly the best 
trained animal under the sun, he started 
back, plunged, reared and struck out with 
his forefeet ere he had time to observe 
what sort of a creature it was that had so 
startled him. When he perceived it was 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


63 


a little girl, he dropped instantly upon 
all fours, and, content with avoiding her, 
resumed his quiet trot in the direction of 
his mistress. Rosamond stood gazing 
after him in miserable disappointment. 

When he reached the child he laid his 
head on her shoulder, and she put her arm 
up round his neck; and, after she had 
talked to him a little, he turned and came 
trotting back to the princess. 

Almost beside herself with joy, she be- 
gan caressing him in the rough way 
which, notwithstanding her love for 
them, she was in the habit of using with 
’animals; and she was not gentle enough, 
in herself even, to see that he did not like 
it, and was only putting up with it for the 
sake of his mistress. But when, that she 
might jump upon his back, she laid hold 
of one of his wings and ruffled some of the 
blue feathers, he wheeled suddenly about, 
gave his long tail a sharp whisk, which 
threw her flat on the grass, and, trotting 
back to his mistress, bent down his head 
before her, as if asking excuse for ridding 
himself of the unbearable. 

The princess was furious. She had 
forgotten all her past life up to the time 
when she first saw the child; her beauty 
had made her forget, and yet she was now 
on the very borders of hating her. What 
she might have done, or rather tried to 
do, had not Peggy’s tail struck her down 
with such force that for a moment she 
could not rise, I can not tell. 

But while she lay half stunned, her eyes 


fell on a little flower just under them. It 
stared up in her face like the living thing 
it was, and she could not take her eyes 
off its face. It was like a primrose try- 
ing to express doubt instead of confidence. 
It seemed to put her half in mind of 
something and she felt as if shame were 
coming. She put out her hand to pluck 
it, but the moment her fingers touched 
it the flower withered up, and hung as 
dead on its stalk as if a flame of fire had 
passed over it. 

Then a shudder thrilled through the 
heart of the princess, and she thought 
with herself, saying, “ What sort of a 
creature am I, that the flowers wither 
when I touch them, and the ponies de- 
spise me with their tails? What a 
wretched, coarse, ill-bred creature I must 
be! There is that lovely child giving life 
instead of death to the flowers, and a mo- 
ment ago I was hating her! I am made 
horrid, and I shall be horrid, and I hate 
myself, and yet I can’t help being my- 
self!” 

She heard the sound of galloping feet, 
and there was the pony, with the child 
seated betwixt his wings, coming straight 
on at full speed for where she lay. 

“ I don’t care,” she said. “ They may 
trample me under their feet if they like. 
I am tired and sick of myself — a creature 
at whose touch the flowers wither!” 

On came the winged pony. But while 
yet some distance off, he gave a great 
bound, spread out his living sails of blue. 


64 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


rose yards and yards above her in the air, 
and alighted as gently as a bird, just a 
few feet on the other side of her. The 
child slipped down and came and kneeled 
over her. 

“Did my pony hurt you?” she said. 
“ I am so sorry!” 

“Yes, he did hurt me,” answered the 
princess, “but not more than I deserved, 
for I took liberties with him and he did 
not like it.” 

“ Oh, you dear!” said the little girl. 
“ I love you for talking so of my Peggy. 
He is a good pony, though a little playful 
sometimes. Would you like to ride upon 
him?” 

“You darling beauty!” cried Rosa- 
mond, sobbing. “ I do love you so, you are 
so good. How did you become so sweet?” 

“Would you like to ride my pony?” 
repeated the child, with a heavenly smile 
in her eyes. 

“No, no, he is fit only for you! My 
clumsy body would hurt him,” said Rosa- 
mond. 

“You don’t mind my having such a 
pony?” said the child. 

“What! mind it!” cried Rosamond, al- 
most indignantly. Then remembering 
certain thoughts that had but a few 
moments before passed through her 
mind, she looked on the ground and was 
silent. 

“ You don’t mind it, then?” repeated 
the child. 

“ I am very glad there is such a you 


and such a pony, and that such a you has 
got such a pony,” said Rosamond, still 
looking on the ground. “ But I do wish 
the flowers would not die when I touch 
them. I was cross to see you make them 
grow, but now I should be content if only 
I did not make them wither.” 

As she spoke she stroked the little girl’s 
bare feet, which were by her, half buried 
in the soft moss, and as she ended she 
laid her cheek on them and kissed them. 

“ Dear princess,” said the little girl, 
“ the flowers will hot always wither at 
your touch. Try now — only do not 
pluck it. Flowers ought never to be 
plucked, except to give away. Touch it 
gently.” 

A silvery flower, something like a snow- 
drop, grew just within her reach. Tim- 
idly she stretched out her hand and 
touched it. The flower trembled, but 
neither shrank nor withered. 

“ Touch it again,” said the child. 

It changed color a little and Rosamond 
fancied it grew larger. 

“ Touch it again,” said the child. 

It opened and grew until it was as large 
as a narcissus, and changed and deepened 
in color till it was a red glowing gold. 

Rosamond gazed motionless. When 
the transfiguration of the flower was per- 
fected, she sprang to her feet with clasped 
hands, but for very ecstasy of joy stood 
speechless, gazing at the child. 

“Did you never see me before, Rosa- 
mond?” she asked. 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 65 


“No, never,” answered the princess. 
“ I never saw anything half so lovely.” 

“ Look at me,” said the child. 

And as Rosamond looked, the child be- 
gan, like the flower, to grow larger. 
Quickly through every gradation of 
growth she passed, until she stood before 
her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither 
old nor young; for hers was the old age of 
everlasting youth. 

Rosamond was utterly enchanted, and 
stood gazing without word or movement, 
until she could endure no more delight. 
Then her mind collapsed to the thought 
— had the pony grown, too? She glanced 
round. There was no pony, no grass, no 
flowers, no hright-hirded forest — but the 
cottage of the wise woman — and before 
her, on the hearth of it, the goddess-child, 
the only thing unchanged. 

She gasped with astonishment. 

“You must set out for your father’s 
palace immediately,” said the lady. 

“ But where is the wise woman?” asked 
Rosamond, looking all about. 

“ Here,” said the lady. 

And Rosamond, looking again, saw the 
wise woman, folded as usual in her long 
dark cloak. 

“ It was you, then, after all!” she cried, 
in delight, and kneeled before her, bury- 
ing her face in her garments. 

“ It always is me, after all,” said the 
wise woman, smiling. 

“ And it was you all the time?” 

“ It always is me all the time.” 


“But which is the real you?” asked 
Rosamond, “ this or that?” 

“ Or a thousand others?” returned the 
wise woman. “ But the one you have just 
seen is the likest to the real me that you 
are able to see just yet — but — And that 
me you could not have seen a little while 
ago. But, my darling child,” she went 
on, lifting her up and clasping her to her 
bosom, “ you must not think, because you 
have seen me once, that therefore you are 
capable of seeing me at all times. No, 
there are many things in you yet that 
must he changed before that can be. 
Now, however, you will seek me. Every 
time you feel you want me, that is a sign 
I am wanting you. There are yet many 
rooms in my house you may have to go 
through; but when you need no more of 
them, then you will be able to throw 
flowers like the little girl you saw in the 
forest.” 

The princess gave a sigh. 

“ Do not think,” the wise woman went 
on, “that the things you have seen in 
my house are mere empty shows. You do 
not know, you can not yet think, how 
living and true they are. Now you must 
go.” 

So she led her once more into the great 
hall, and there showed her the picture of 
her father’s capital, and his palace with 
the brazen gates. 

“There is your home,” she said, “go 
to it.” 

The princess understood, and a flush of 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


66 

shame rose to her forehead. She turned 
to the wise woman and said: 

" Will you forgive all my naughtiness 
and all the trouble I have given you?” 

"If I had not forgiven you I would 
never have taken the trouble to punish 
you. If I had not loved you, do you 
think I would have carried you away in 
my cloak?” 

" How could you love such an ugly, ill- 
tempered, rude, hateful little wretch?” 

"I saw through it all what you were 
going to be,” said the wise woman, kissing 
her. " But, remember, you have yet only 
begun to be what I saw.” 

" I will try to remember,” said the prin- 
cess, holding her cloak and looking up in 
her face. 

" Go, then,” said the wise woman. 

Rosamond turned away on the instant, 
ran to the picture, stepped over the frame 
of it, heard a door close gently, gave one 
glance back, saw behind her the loveliest 
palace-front of alabaster, gleaming in the 
pale-yellow light of an early summer 
morning, looked again to the eastward, 
saw the faint outline of her father’s city 
against the sky, and ran off to reach it. 

It looked much further off now than 
when it seemed a picture, but the sun was 
not yet up, and she had the whole of a 
summer day before her. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

HE soldiers sent 
out by the king 
had no great dif- 
ficulty in finding 
Agnes’ father and 
mother, of whom 
they demanded if 
they knew any- 
thing of such a 
young princess as they described. The 
honest pair told them the truth in 
every point; that, having lost their own 
child and found another, they had taken 
her home and treated her as their own; 
that she had indeed called herself a prin- 
cess, but they had not believed her, be- 
cause she did not look like one; that, even 
if they had, they did not know how they 
could have done differently, seeing they 
were poor people, who could not afford to 
keep any idle person about the place; 
that they had done their best to teach 
her good ways, and had not parted with 
her until her bad temper rendered it im- 
possible to put up with her any longer; 
that, as to the king’s proclamation, they 
heard little of the world’s news on their 
lonely hill, and it had never reached 
them; that, if it had, they did not know 
how either of them could have gone such 
a distance from home, and left their 
sheep or their cottage, one or the other, 
uncared for. 

“You must learn, then, how both of 



A DOUBLE STORY. 


67 


you can go, and your sheep must take care 
of your cottage,” said the lawyer, and 
commanded the soldiers to hind them 
hand and foot. 

Heedless of their entreaties to he 
spared such an indignity, the soldiers 
obeyed, bore them to a cart, and set out 
for the king’s palace, leaving the cottage 
door open, the fire burning, the pot of 
potatoes boiling upon it, the sheep scat- 
tered over the hill, and the dogs not 
knowing what to do. 

Hardly were they gone, however, before 
the wise woman walked up, with Prince 
behind her, peeped into the cottage, 
locked the door, put the key in her 
pocket, and then walked away up the hill.. 
In a few minutes there arose a great battle 
between Prince and the dog which filled 
his former place — a well-meaning but 
dull fellow, who could fight better than 
feed. Prince was not long in showing 
him that he was meant for his master; and 
then, by his efforts, and directions to the 
other dogs, the sheep were soon gathered 
again, and out of danger from foxes and 
bad dogs. As soon as this was done, the 
wise woman left them in charge of Prince, 
while she went to the next farm to ar- 
range for the folding of the sheep and the 
feeding of the dogs. 

When the soldiers reached the palace, 
they were ordered to carry their prisoners 
at once into the presence of the king and 
queen, in the throne-room. Their two 
thrones stood upon a high dais at one 


end, and on the floor at the foot of the 
dais the soldiers laid their helpless pris- 
oners. The queen commanded that they 
should be unbound, and ordered them to 
stand up. They obeyed with the dignity 
of insulted innocence, and their bearing 
offended their foolish majesties. 

Meantime the princess, after a long 
day’s journey, arrived at the palace, and 
walked up to the sentry at the gate. 

“ Stand back!” said the sentry. 

“ I wish to go in, if you please,” said 
the princess gently. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the sentry; for 
he was one of those dull people who form 
their judgment from a person’s clothes, 
without even looking in his eyes; and, as 
the princess happened to be in rags, her 
request was amusing, and the booby 
thought himself quite clever for laughing 
at her so thoroughly. 

“ I am the princess,” Rosamond said 
quietly. 

“ What princess?” bellowed the man. 

“The Princess Rosamond. Is there 
another?” she answered and asked. 

But the man was so tickled at the won- 
drous idea of a princess in rags, that he 
scarcely heard what she said for laughing. 
As soon as he recovered a little, he pro- 
ceeded to chuck the princess under the 
chin, saying: 

“ You’re a pretty girl, my dear, though 
you ain’t no princess.” 

Rosamond drew back with dignity. 

“You have spoken three untruths at 


68 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


once,” she said. “ I am not pretty, and I 
am a princess; and if I were dear to you, 
as I ought to be, you would not laugh at 
me because I am badly dressed, but stand 
aside and let me go to my father and 
mother.” 

The tone of her speech, and the rebuke 
she gave him, made the man look at her; 
and, looking at her, he began to tremble 
inside his foolish body, and wonder 
whether he might not have made a mis- 
take. He raised his hand in salute, and 
said: 

“I beg your pardon, miss, but I have 
express orders to admit no child whatever 
within the palace gates. They tell me his 
majesty the king says he is sick of chil- 
dren.” 

“ He may well be sick of me!” thought 
the princess; “but it can’t mean that he 
does not want me home again. I don’t 
think you can very well call me a child,” 
she said, looking the sentry full in the 
face. 

“You ain’t very big, miss,” answered 
the soldier, “ but so be you say you ain’t 
a child, I’ll take the risk. The king can 
only kill me, and a man must die once.” 

He opened the gate, stepped aside, and 
allowed her to pass. Had she lost her 
temper, as every one but the wise woman 
would have expected of her, he certainly 
would not have done so. 

She ran into the palace, the door of 
which had been left open by the porter 
when he followed the soldiers and pris- 


oners to the throne-room, and bounded up 
the stairs to look for her father and 
mother. As she passed the door of the 
throne-room, she heard an unusual noise 
in it, and running to the king’s private 
entrance, over which hung a heavy cur- 
tain, she peeped past the edge of it, and 
saw, to her amazement, the shepherd and 
shepherdess standing like culprits before 
the king and queen, and the same mo- 
ment heard the king say: 

“ Peasants, where is the Princess Kosa- 
mond?” 

“Truly, sire, we do not know,” an- 
swered the shepherd. 

“ You ought to know,” said the king. 

“ Sire, we could keep her no longer.” 

“You confess, then,” said the king, 
suppressing the outbreak of the wrath 
that boiled up in him, “ that you turned 
her out of your house?” 

For the king had been informed by a 
swift messenger of all that had passed 
long before the arrival of the prisoners. 

“We did, sire; but not only could we 
keep her no longer, but we knew not that 
she was the princess.” 

“You ought to have known the mo- 
ment you cast your eyes upon her,” said 
the king. “ Any one who does not know 
a princess the moment he sees her ought 
to have his eyes put out.” 

“ Indeed he ought,” said the queen. 

To this they returned no answer, for 
they had none ready. 

“ Why did you not bring her at once to 


A DOUBLE STORY . 69 


the palace,” pursued the king, “ whether 
you knew her to be a princess or not? 
My proclamation left nothing to your 
judgment. It said every child.” 

“ We heard nothing of the proclama- 
tion, sire.” 

“You ought to have heard,” said the 
king. “ It is enough that I make procla- 
mations; it is for you to read them. Are 
they not written in letters of gold upon 
the brazen gates of this palace?” 

“A poor shepherd, your majesty, how 
often must he leave his flock and go hun- 
dreds of miles to look whether there may 
not be something in letters of gold upon 
the brazen gates? We did not know that 
your majesty had made a proclamation or 
even that the princess was lost.” 

“You ought to have known,” said the 
king. 

The shepherd held his peace. 

“ But,” said the queen, taking up the 
word, “all that is as nothing, when I 
think how you misused the darling.” 

The only ground the queen had for say- 
ing thus was what Agnes had told her as 
to how the princess was dressed; and her 
condition seemed to the queen so miser- 
able that she had imagined all sorts of 
oppression and cruelty. 

But this was more than the shep- 
herdess, who had not yet spoken, could 
bear. 

“ She would have been dead, and not 
buried, long ago, madam, if I had not 
carried her home in my two arms.” 


“ What I want to know,” said the king, 
“ is, where is the princess now?” 

The shepherd made no answer, for he 
had nothing to say more than he had said 
already. 

“You have murdered her!” shouted 
the king. “You shall be tortured till 
you confess the truth, and then you shall 
be tortured to death, for you are the most 
abominable wretches in the whole wide 
world.” 

“Who accuses me of crime?” cried the 
shepherd, indignant. 

“ I accuse you,” said the king, “ but 
you shall see, face to face, the chief wit- 
ness to your villainy. Officer, bring the 
girl.” 

Silence filled the hall while they waited. 
It was with difficulty Rosamond could 
keep her place, but so wise had she al- 
ready become that she saw it would be far 
better to let everything come out before 
she interfered. 

At length the door opened, and in 
came the officer followed by Agnes, look- 
ing white as death and mean as sin. 

The shepherdess gave a shriek and 
darted toward her with arms spread wide; 
the shepherd followed but not so eagerly. 

“My child! my lost darling! my 
Agnes!” cried the shepherdess. 

“Hold them asunder!” shouted the 
king. “Take all three of them to the 
rack! Away with them!” 

The soldiers approached to lay hands 
on them. But behold! a girl all in rags. 


70 A DOUBLE STORY 


with such- a radiant countenance that it 
was right lovely to see, darted between, 
and, careless of the royal presence, flung 
herself upon the shepherdess, crying: 

“Do not touch her. She is my good, 
kind mistress.” 

But the shepherdess could hear or see 
no one but her Agnes, and pushed her 
away. Then the princess turned, with 
the tears in her eyes, to the shepherd, and 
threw her arms about his neck and pulled 
down his head and kissed him. And the 
tall shepherd lifted her to his bosom and 
kept her there, but his eyes were fixed on 
his Agnes. 

“What is the meaning of this?” cried 
the king, starting up from his throne. 
“How did that ragged girl get in here? 
Take her away with the rest. She is one 
of them, too.” 

But the princess made the shepherd set 
her down, and, before any one could inter- 
fere, she had run up the steps of the 
king’s throne, flung herself upon the 
king, and began to smother him with 
kisses. 

All stood astonished, except the three 
peasants, who did not even see what took 
place. As for the king, he was so breath- 
less and aghast with astonishment, that he 
was too feeble to fling the ragged child 
from him, as he tried to do. But she left 
him, and, running down the steps of the 
one throne and up those of the other, 
began kissing the queen next. But the 
queen cried out: 


“ Get away, you great, rude child!” 

Then the princess ran down the steps 
of the throne and the dais, and, placing 
herself between the shepherd and shep- 
herdess, took a hand of each, and stood 
looking at the king and queen. 

Their faces began to change. At last 
they began to know her. But she was so 
altered — so lovelily altered — that it was 
no wonder they should not have known 
her at the first glance; but it was the 
fault of the pride and anger and injustice 
with which their hearts were filled, that 
they did not know her at the second. 

The king gazed, and the queen gazed, 
both half risen from their thrones. 

“ My darling!” at last shrieked the 
mother, a little doubtfully. 

“My pet of pets!” cried the father, 
with an interrogative twist of tone. 

Another moment and they were half 
way down the steps of the dais. 

“ Stop!” said a voice of command. The 
king and queen stopped at once half way, 
then drew themselves up, stared, and be- 
gan to grow angry again, but dared not 
go further. 

The wise woman was coming slowly up 
through the crowd that filled the hall. 
Every one made way for her. She came 
straight on until she stood in front of the 
king and queen. 

“ Miserable man and woman!” she said, 
in words they alone could hear, “I took 
your daughter away when she was worthy 
of such parents; I bring her back, and 


A DOUBLE STORY. 


71 


they are unworthy of her. That you did 
not know her when she came to you is 
small wonder, for you have been blind in 
soul all your lives; now be blind in body 
until your better eyes are unsealed.” 

She threw her cloak open. It fell to 
the ground, and the radiance that flashed 
from her robe of snowy whiteness, from 
her face of awful beauty, and from her 
eyes that shone like pools of sunlight, 
smote them blind. 

Eosamond saw them give a great start, 
shudder, waver to and fro, then sit down 
on the steps of the dais; and she knew 
they were punished, but knew not how. 
She rushed up to them and, catching a 
hand of each, said: 

"Father, dear father! mother dear! I 
will ask the wise woman to forgive you.” 

"Oh, I am blind! I am blind!” they 
cried together. " Dark as night! Stone 
blind!” 

Eosamond left them, sprang down the 
steps, and kneeling at her feet, cried, 
" Oh, my lovely wise woman, do let them 
see! Do open their eyes, dear, good, wise 
woman.” 

The wise woman bent down to her and 
said, so that none else could hear: 

" I will one day. Meanwhile you must 
be their servant, as I have been yours. 
Bring them to me and I will make them 
welcome.” 

Eosamond rose, went up the steps 
again to her father and mother, where 
they sat like statues with closed eyes, half 


way from the top of the dais where stood 
their empty thrones, seated herself be- 
tween them, took a hand of each and was 
still. 

All this time very few in the room saw 
the wise woman. The moment she 
threw off her cloak she vanished from the 
sight of almost all who were present. The 
woman who swept and dusted the hall and 
brushed the thrones saw her, and the 
shepherd had a glimmering vision of her; 
but no one else that I know of caught a 
glimpse of her. The shepherdess did not 
see her. Nor did Agnes, but she felt her 
presence upon her like the heat of a fur- 
nace seven times heated. 

As soon as Eosamond had taken her 
place between her father and mother, the 
wise woman lifted her cloak from the 
floor and threw it again around her. 
Then everybody saw her, and Agnes felt 
as if a soft dewy cloud had come between 
her and the torrid rays of a vertical sun. 
The wise woman turned to the shepherd 
and shepherdess. 

"For you,” she said, "you are suf- 
ficiently punished by the work of your 
own hands. Instead of making your 
daughter obey you, you left her to be a 
slave to herself; you coaxed when you 
ought to have compelled; you praised 
when you ought to have punished; you 
threatened when you ought to have in- 
flicted, and there she stands, the full- 
grown result of your foolishness! She is 
your crime and your punishment. Take 


72 


A DOUBLE STOBY. 


her home with you, and live hour after 
hour with the' pale-hearted disgrace you 
call your daughter. What she is, the 
worm at her heart has begun to teach her. 
When life is no longer endurable, come to 
me.” 

“ Madam,” said the shepherd, “may I 
not go with you now?” 

“ You shall,” said the wise woman. 

“Husband! husband!” cried the shep- 
herdess, “ how are we two to get home 
without you?” 

“I will see to that,” said the wise 
woman. “But little of home you will 
find it until you have come to me. The 
king carried you hither and he shall carry 
you back. But your husband shall not go 
with you. He can not now if he would.” 

The shepherdess looked and saw that 
the shepherd stood in a deep sleep. She 
went to him and sought to rouse him, but 
her efforts availed nothing. 


The wise woman then turned to Rosa- 
mond. 

“ My child,” she said, “ I shall never be 
far from you. Come to me when you 
will. Bring them to me.” 

Rosamond smiled and kissed her hand, 
but kept her place by her parents. They 
also were now in a deep sleep like the 
shepherd. 

The wise woman took the shepherd by 
the hand and led him away. 

And that is all my Double Story. How 
double it is, if you care to know, you must 
find out. If you think it is not finished 
— I never knew a story that was. I could 
tell you a great deal more concerning 
them all, but I have already told more 
than is good for those who read but with 
their foreheads, and enough for those 
whom it has made look a little solemn and 
sigh as they close the book. 



1 


A Lover of Children. 


By ALICE L. GRIGGS. 



‘0 be born in "bonny 
Scotland ” is, gen- 
erally speaking, to 
inherit as a birth- 
right a goodly por- 
tion of two quali- 
ties very helpful in 
the struggle for success — “ grit ” and per- 
sistence. It proved so, at any rate, in the 
case of George MacDonald, born in 1824, 
in the town of Huntly, Aberdeenshire; 
the good fairies who brought to his cradle 
those rich gifts which he has since shared 
with the world did not forget the hum- 
bler, homelier qualities. 

Mr. MacDonald was more fortunate 
than many authors, for his father was a 
wealthy man, the owner of the great 
Huntly mills, who was not only able but 
anxious to give his son every advantage. 
As a young man, the future poet and 
novelist seems to have had no idea of 
making literature his life-work, for after 
graduating at the university of Aberdeen 
he went to Owens college in Manchester, 
England, to study for the ministry. For 
a number of years he was a preacher in 
Surrey and Sussex, but after a time he 
gave up his ministry and joined the 


Church of England as a simple layman. 
It must have been about this time that 
he began really to give himself up to liter- 
ature, though for awhile he was the prin- 
cipal of a young ladies’ seminary. In 
these later days he is better known as a 
novelist than as a poet, but his first offer- 
ing was made to the Muses; and it was as 
a poet that he first made his mark. 

Two volumes of poetry appeared, one 
in 1855, the second a year later, and in 
1857 the author made an extended tour 
through Europe, traveling over the conti- 
nent, and zigzagging from one shore of 
the Mediterranean to the other. This 
play-spell over, he settled down to work 
again, and the next year published a 
“ Faerie Romance,” called “ Phantasies.” 

After these flights of fancy and imagin- 
ation, his pen turned to something more 
solid and substantial, and he wrote his 
first novel. It was sent to a publisher 
for approval, but the approval was not 
forthcoming. The publisher assured 
Mr. MacDonald that he was convinced the 
manuscript had great merit, but, never- 
theless, he should have to return it, and 
return it he did. Then the young novel- 
ist’s Scotch “ grit ” and persistence began 


74 


A LOVER OF CHILDREN. 



to show themselves. Not to be discour- 
aged by one rebuff, he tried again. At 
last his manuscript was accepted, and 
when it was published, in 1863, under the 


title “ David Elgin- 
brod,” it became popular 
at once. Many of his 
admirers, even now, con- 
sider it the best of his 
works. 

Since his first volume 
was published, Mr. MacDonald's pen has 
not been idle long at a time; almost every 
year has witnessed the completion of a 
story or a book of poems, and sometimes 


they have come so fast as almost to tread 
on one another’s heels. 

In the winter of 1872-3, when the fame 
of the poet-novelist had spread beyond 
the sea, he came to America on a lecture 
tour. Already he had many strong 
friends on this side the ocean; these gave 
him such a warm and hearty reception as 
is seldom accorded to visitors from a 
foreign shore. Those 
who had made his ac- 
quaintance only 
through the printed 
page, were delighted 
at the opportunity of 
meeting him face to 
face. Their loyalty 
was not shaken by 
this test, for the noble 
presence o f 
the well- 
known writer, 
his genial 
manners, his 
musical voice, 
and his just 
but kindly 
criticism, not 
only deepened 
the admiration 
of these old- 
time friends, 
but won for him many new admirers. 

On his return to England he went to 
work with untiring energy, and the num- 
ber of volumes of novels and poems that 


A LOVER OF CHILDREN. 


75 


have appeared since give convincing proof 
of his industry and his close application 
to his work. 

It has been said of Mr. MacDonald 
that he is “ one of the most untiring 
teachers of the truth.” In all his writ- 
ings, he is, first and foremost, a teacher. 
Whatever is good, true, noble, wins his 
love and admiration, and his writings are 
filled with helpful lessons. Some of the 
critics, indeed, have complained that there 
is almost too much teaching in his stories, 
and for that reason such prefer the 
poems. 

Mr. MacDonald has always been a re- 
specter of the English language, as he 
shows by his treatment of it. In all his 
writings he uses only the purest and most 
beautiful of English, while his style is so 
free from anything that could cloud or 
obscure the thought that it has been 
likened to running water. 

The poet’s fondness for children, and 
his interest in what interests them, come 
to light very often in his writings. It is 
the privilege of a poet to wander into 
realms from which ordinary mortals are 
barred out. Mr. MacDonald makes use of 
this privilege to obtain entrance into the 
domain of the fairies, presided over by 
mischievous Queen Mab; as a result, he 
has numerous wonderful stories to tell, 
most fascinating to youthful listeners. 


He even ventures to question that small 
monarch, the baby, who rules supreme in 
so many households, and the answers he 
receives are such as only a poet could 
catch. 

Where did you come from, baby dear? 

Out of the everywhere into here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue? 

Out of the sky as I dhme through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and 
spin ? 

Some of the starry sparks left in. 

Where did you get that little tear? 

I found it waiting when I got here. 
***** 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear? 

God spoke, and it came out to hear. 
***** 

But how did you come to us, you dear? 

God thought about you, and so I am here. 

It is a dainty bit of verse, and the an- 
swers that are put into the baby’s mouth 
are full of poetic fancy, ennobled by deep 
reverence. 

In his graver poems, Mr. MacDonald 
never forgets that all true poetry should, 
in one way or another, have an uplifting 
influence upon the reader. The central 
point of his teaching is complete trust in 
God. When we have once come to know 
God as he is, the poet tells us again and 
again, in one form and another, our trust 
must be perfect and complete, or it is un- 
worthy. 





T is simply marvelous.” 

This is what more than one visitor 
to the Kindergarten for the Blind in Bos- 
ton has said after seeing the work done by 
totally blind children under ten years of 
age. More wonderful still is the work 
done by two or three pupils who have 
come to the institution blind and deaf and 
dumb. 

All the world knows of Helen Keller, 
probably the most interesting blind per- 


son living, and certainly the most remark- 
able in point of intellectuality. 

There are in the Kindergarten for the 
Blind in Boston two or three students of 
whom less is generally known than is 
known of Helen Keller, but they are won- 
derful instances of what human patience 
and ingenuity, combined with human af- 
fection and perseverance, are doing for 
children who have come to the institution 
deaf and dumb and blind. 

One of these is an extremely interesting 

little fellow named Tommy Stringer, 
re 


A KINDERGABTEN FOR THE BLIND. 77 


This boy, the youngest of a family of nine 
children, was born with all his senses, but 
when less than two years old became deaf 
and dumb and blind through an attack of 
spinal meningitis. When he came to the 
Kindergarten for the Blind he could 
scarcely stand and was as helpless as a 
babe. To-day he runs about as nimbly 
as any boy of his years, he reads with 
great accuracy and fluency, he models 
animals and objects of all kinds in clay 
with great skill, he handles tools freely, 
and is now beginning to speak! He is 
unquestionably the most remarkable 
totally deaf and blind boy of his years 
living, and is a splendid illustration of 
the progress made in recent years in 
teaching children of this class. 

One must bring infinite patience and 
unwearying affection to the task of teach- 
ing a blind and deaf pupil. It is so diffi- 
cult to make even a beginning. Consider 
for a moment the task that lies before one 
who undertakes to teach another to read 
who has been blind and deaf and dumb 
since the first year of his life. When 
little Tommy Stringer came to the Kin- 
dergarten he did not know the difference 
between a cat and an elephant. He did 
not know the name of a single object. 
His mind was a blank. He was a poor, 
helpless object of pity to all who saw 
him. 

His face was and is full of an indescrib- 
able pathos that wins the hearts of all 
who see him. It is a bright, intelligent 


face, and his manner is that of a quick, 
alert, happy and fun-loving boy. 

He was first taught the names of ob- 
jects by means of the finger language. An 
object, such as a knife, book or apple, 
would be handed to him and he would feel 
of it with the peculiar sensitiveness of 
touch common to the blind. Then the 
name of the object would be spelled in the 
palm of his hand by his teacher with her 
fingers. Then fcame the spelling of words 
by means of the raised letters used by the 
blind. It was all slow, hard work, but 
one could be patient when one looked into 
the eager little face and saw how hard his 
mind was trying to free itself from dark- 
ness and ignorance. A very slight pro- 
gress gave his teacher great delight, and 
the smile on the boy’s face proved his 
pleasure. He was an apt pupil after a 
beginning had been made, and from the 
day of his arrival he has been a great 
favorite with the other children. 

“ They will do anything for Tom,” the 
matron said to me. “ They won’t tell on 
him when he gets into mischief, no matter 
how quickly they tell on each other.” 

“Does he get into mischief like any 
other boy?” 

“Indeed he does! He is fairly over- 
flowing with the spirit of mischief some 
days, and plays pranks with all the de- 
light of one who can see and hear and 
talk.” 

His mischievous propensities at one 
time took the form of destroying things. 


78 


A KINDERGARTEN FOR THE BLIND . 


and his teacher tied his hands up in a 
pair of cloth bags. When the bags were 
removed he spelled with his fingers: 

“ I will be gentle, careful; yes, yes.” 

He conceived a great liking for playing 
with the water faucet in the dressing- 
room. He would turn on the water and 
play in it, slipping into the dressing- 
room for this express purpose. One day 
he unscrewed and took off the whole top 
of the faucet, which consisted of several 
different parts. Of course the water 
spurted out of the top of the faucet, a 
novelty that gave Master Tom great pleas- 
ure, until some one passing the room dis- 
covered the mischief and had the water 
shut off in the basement until the missing 
parts of the faucet could be replaced. 
Tom had carried these pieces to his room 
and put them with the playthings in one 
of his bureau drawers. 

He brought them when 'told to do so, 
and replaced them on the faucet, himself 
putting each piece in its proper place 
without being told where it belonged. 

Unlike Helen Keller and Willie Kobin, 
Tom does not at present care very much 
whether he learns to talk or not, and pre- 
fers the finger alphabet to spoken lan- 
guage. He makes little effort to achieve 
distinction as a speaker. He can speak 
if he will so that his teachers can readily 
understand him, if others could not. But 
he has no liking for either writing or 
speaking, which his teachers attribute 
more to indolence than to any other cause. 


He will doubtless make greater efforts to 
improve in these respects when he better 
understands the value of both forms of 
expression. 

Here is one of Tom’s letters written 
when he was spending the summer on a 
farm near Boston: 


"W ec. T\~t A_ 


Sc 

217 c: a_ t c/VL a. A 

Co sc 

z.ih 


C'm.Vc k ^ 
-ru a. -ru o s , 

a L -tv. Cji 

a ~m_ lr r * 
A 'TTU G_Tt 

t k-£r c o-L. r 

w-r-v. cl_ c . Ih-tf ccu.L'V 
U a. -c s' -m a Li fuo 

It L £3 Pl.*v-£ -we o' 

o L J 7 c a . L P cj C “v c £ 

"u-s <v c c.L . Co'ctJ /j’ c • 

n T J 

I- « o -m. i a -ttv. . 


C- “TV . 

a~ »\a r d.' 


Mr. Anagnos is the superintendent of 
the great Perkins Institution for the 
Blind in Boston, and Tommy Stringer is 
extremely fond of him. One of his first 
letters consisted of but these words: 

“ Dear Mr. Anagnos: I love you. Tom.” 

Tom has a very good and true friend in 
Helen Keller, who is intensely interested 
in his behalf. She has secured a good 
deal of money for his education. She 
owned a fine dog which died, and some 
one gave her forty dollars with which to 
purchase another, but she insisted on 


A KINDERGARTEN FOR THE BLIND. 79 


sending the money to Tommy Stringer 
for his education. He must depend en- 
tirely upon the charity and generosity of 
others for his support and education. 
His mother is dead, and his relatives are 
toQ poor to pay for having him taught and 
the additional expense of keeping him at 
the Kindergarten. 

My last glimpse of Tom was when he 
came running swiftly across the Kinder- 
garten play-ground dragging his sled 
after him. Thirty other little boys, all 
blind, but none deaf and dumb, were play- 
ing with all the delight of children who 
can see. It was pathetic to hear the lit- 
tle fellows call out: 

“ Oh, see me! See what I’m doing! 
See me slide!” for they always speak as if 
they could really “ see.” But it is only 
with the inner vision that they behold 
anything, for their eyes are veiled in utter 
darkness. 

Next to Helen Keller, Willie Elizabeth 
Robin is probably one of the most inter- 
esting deaf and blind girls living. She, 
too, was entirely dumb when she came to 
the Kindergarten in Boston, but she now 
speaks so that her teacher and other in- 
mates of the institution understand every 
word she says. 

Willie Robin is of the happiest and 
sunniest disposition, # accepting cheer- 
fully her lot of total blindness and 
deafness. She makes no complaint, and 
it is doubtful if there is a seeing and hear- 
ing child in the world who is happier 


than she. She is a perfect picture of 
healthy, happy childhood. 

On the day I visited the Kindergarten 
she was in the gymnasium with eight or 
ten other blind girls. They were climb- 
ing and running about so gracefully and 
easily that it was difficult to believe that 
they could not see. Willie Robin was 
about as quick and accurate in her move- 
ments as any of them. She gave spoken 
replies to everything the teacher said to 
her, her utterance being peculiarly harsh 
and guttural, and not intelligible to me, 
although her teacher understood it 
readily. 

She is wonderfully quick in her per- 
ceptions, and, unlike Tommy Stringer, 
delights in her newly-acquired power of 
speech. She will not use the finger lan- 
guage if she can reply in spoken words, 
which is not always possible because of 
her limited vocabulary. 

It is very difficult for her to take a 
word of four or five syllables and pro- 
nounce it properly. You must bear in 
mind that her teacher cannot correct a 
mispronounced syllable by herself speak- 
ing it correctly. She corrects it by tak- 
ing the pupil’s hand and laying it on her 
own face or even on her tongue while she 
speaks the word, or she may even have fb 
put her fingers in Willie’s mouth and 
place the tongue in the right position. 
Sometimes a mere touch on the throat, 
nose or mouth will correct some mispro- 
nunciation. 


80 


A KINDEBGABTEN FOB THE BLIND. 


Willie is the soul of kindness and gen- 
erosity. One time when she was being 
taught arithmetic she was asked the dif- 
ference between one-fourth and one-fifth, 
when she replied that one-fourth was the 
larger amount. When her teacher asked 
if she would prefer one-fourth or one- 
fifth of something very nice, she quickly 
replied with her fingers, “ I would rather 
have one-fifth, because I would not like 
to he selfish.” 

She is entirely unselfish, and glad and 
eager to do her school-mates any kindness. 
Can any little girl but eleven years of 
age who may read this write a better essay 
on the oyster than the following, written 
entirely without assistance by this little 
deaf and blind and partially dumb girl? 

THE OYSTER. 

“The oyster belongs to the branch 
Mollusca, which means soft-bodied, and 
the class is Lamellibranchiata, which 
means folded gills. It has two parts to 
its shell, so it is called a bivalve. The 
hinge is at the left side of the oyster and 
the convex side is at the back of the 
oyster and the concave side is at the front 
of the oyster. The side opposite the 
hinge is wider than the hinge side. 

“ It has a great many layers which are 
laid by the mantle to make the shell grow 
larger. The oyster’s shell is rougher 
than the clam’s shell. 


“Now I am going to tell you what is 
inside. At the hinge side is the viscera. 
The mouth is at the left of the viscera. 
It has four palpi. Two above and two 
below the mouth. The oyster has four 
gills. They begin at the palpi and go 
round to the muscle on the concave side. 
They are like the leaves of a book. 

“ The water goes to the convex side 
and flows over the gills. The gills take 
the air from the water. The air freshens 
the blood. The food is taken from the 
water by the little hairs on the gills and 
is rolled into balls and goes to the edge 
of the gills and then goes along to the 
mouth. 

“It has a very strong muscle in the 
middle of the shell. It is joined to both 
shells and holds them together. The 
oyster has a mantle which is to cover the 
oyster on the inside. It is in two parts.” 

There are in this, the only Kindergar- 
ten for the blind in America, thirty little 
girls and thirty-three hoys, who, with 
their friends, have abundant reason for 
gratitude because of the wonderful pro- 
gress made in teaching the blind in recent 
years. It is a divine ministration. This 
Kindergarten is truly what some one has 
called it, “ a branch of the university of 
humanity,” and every blind child within 
its walls, speaking out of the darkness, 
gives gratitude to those who have brought 
this institution into existence. 


The Author of “Robinson Crusoe.” 


BY REV. EDWARD A. RAND. 


HE man who wrote 
“ Robinson Crusoe ” is 
worth knowing about 
— Daniel Defoe. Where 
was he born, and whose 
son was he? “ Son of 
a sea - captain !” says some boy. “Bora 
on an island!” cries another, “ where he 
could smell salt-water to his heart’s con- 
tent!” 

Each guess is wrong. His father was a 
butcher. He was born in London in 1661. 
And his name was only Foe at first. 
Daniel put on the prefix De, making it 
De Foe. That sounds French, and one of 
our author’s enemies said he did it to es- 
cape the reputation of an English origin. 

Daniel was favored with a good chance 
to get an education, and he was a student 
at Newington Green Academy. I think 
Daniel must have been about as quick and 
lively a student as Newington Green ever 
attracted to its benches. He got part 
way over the road to the Presbyterian 
ministry, but that was not to be his goal, 
lie took a fancy to that great, outside 
world of politics and state-craft always 
standing in need of a brave critic perhaps 
more than one to give praise — a scold as 
well as a eulogist. His fort was satire, 


and he found many big targets at which 
he could send his shafts of ridicule. He 
was not afraid and he shot. For years he 
had a checkered career, marching under 
the colors of the Duke of Monmouth in 
his unlucky military efforts, turning his 
unoccupied hands to business, holding a 
government office, writing with a sharp 
quill, till in 1702 he sent out a pamphlet 
called “ The Shortest Way With Dis- 
senters,”— those not in harmony with 
England’s state religion. He belonged to 
that dissenting party, and now, as in his 
quizzing, satirical way he wrote on, he 
proposed that dissenters should be se- 
verely dealt with, their ministers hung, 
their adherents banished! It made a 
great stir. It was thought in Parliament 
to be a libel on the House of Commons 
and was so voted, and the common hang- 
man was sent out to burn — not the 
author but his exasperating pages. Then 
a reward of fifty pounds was offered for 
the author’s arrest. Lest the publisher 
might suffer, it is said that Defoe gave 
himself up. A part nf his punishment 
was to be pilloried. The pillory was a 
frame on a stool. The unlucky culprit 
stood on the stool, and there were in the 
frame holes and folding boards for the ad- 



82 


THE AUTHOR OF “ ROBINSON CRUSOE . 


mission of his hands and head. There he London, and he received an ovation, 
was held fast, and all the world could Garlands of flowers, not mud, were thrown 
come and see him. Sometimes he would 
be treated very roughly. Mud and gar- 
bage would be thrown at him. 

Defoe was sentenced to stand in the 



at him. His health was drunk, and ap- 
plause was liberally given, while from 
hand to hand went a “ Hymn to the Pil- 
pillory three times. A part of this pun- lory ” he had written. These lines were 
ishment was inflicted in the Temple, recited: 


THE AUTHOR OF “ROBINSON CRUSOE” 83 


“ Tell them, the men that placed him here 
Are scandals to the times; 

Are at a loss to find his guilt, 

And can’t commit his crimes!” 

He was now about forty years old. He 
is described as a spare man, of medium' 
size, with gray eyes, a hooked nose, and 
sharp chin. The picture of a man, you 
say, all the time after something. 

We pass over his life until he was about 
fifty-four, a life checkered, restless, that 
gave hard blows to his political enemies, 
and some good blows, too, at mischievous 
projects. Beset with anxieties, heavy- 
hearted, he was struck with apoplexy. 
Many people would have yielded. 

Defoe got up from his stroke. He got 
up to wield a new kind of pen. He de- 
termined it should write in interest of 
another sphere than that of the turbulent 
state-life about him. What would help 
religion or good morals his pen should 
help. He wrote “ The Family Instruc- 
tor/ 5 about the London Plague, about a 
“ New Voyage Around the World/ 5 about 
“ Religious Courtship/ 5 and one day there 
appeared in the book-shops of London 


“ The Life and Surprising Adventures of 
Robinson Crusoe. 55 

There had beeji a sailor, Alexander 
Selkirk, who went through some interest- 
ing adventures on a lonely Pacific isle, 
Juan Fernandez. The story of Selkirk 
was given to the world in 1712. Little 
did Selkirk think on that forsaken, far- 
away island, that a busy pen, stirred by a 
vivid imagination, would find in his hum- 
ble story the rich materials of a magnifi- 
cent book for boys. Defoe had a way of 
writing up details so that an imagined 
scene would appear like a real one. The 
reader has this same feeling about “ Rob- 
inson Crusoe. 55 So Defoe wrote about the 
London Plague, and one Dr. Mead 
thought the writer really saw its horrors. 

Defoe was the author of two hundred 
and ten books and pamphlets. He was 
repeatedly rich and poor. He wrote: 

“ No man has tasted different fortunes more, 
And thirteen times I have been rich and poor.” 

One April day in the year 1731 he died. 
Poor, it is said, but let us hope that a 
change of worlds made him rich. 


Neesima, the Japanese Patriot. 


By IDA REED SMITH. 


WAS during the summer 
of 1864 that the good 
ship “ Berlin,” a brig en- 
gaged in trade between 
Shanghai and several 
Japanese ports, lay in the 
harbor of Hakodate. Just 
before the anchor was lifted for the voy- 
age to China the captain was told that a 
young J apanese, a friend of a clerk in the 
shipping office, was very anxious to escape 
to the United States, that there he might 
obtain an education. At this time the 
young men of Japan were forbidden to 
leave their country on pain of death, and 
serious consequences were likely to follow 
one who was detected in assisting a J apan- 
ese from his native land; but Captain 
Savory was a Massachusetts man, and the 
boy’s desire for knowledge touched a re- 
sponsive chord in the breast of the bluff, 
old sailor. He agreed to give him pas- 
sage to Shanghai and secure his transfer 
to some American-bound ship, and in the 
darkness of the night of July 18, while 
the Japanese custom-officers were still on 
board, the daring fugitive was smuggled 
into one of the cabin staterooms and kept 
in hiding until the brig was under sail. 

At Shanghai the runaway was trans- 


ferred to the ship “Wild Rover,” Captain 
Taylor, of Boston. The young Japanese 
could speak but little English, though he 
had a better understanding of the written 
language. On being asked his name he 
replied: 

“Neesima Shimeta.” 

“ I shall call you J oe,” announced the 
captain laconically, with the true Yankee 
instinct for saving time by clipping 
words; and it is of “Joe,” — later known 
and loved by our own country and his 
native land as Joseph Hardy Neesima — 
that we propose to learn and become ac- 
quainted with the principal facts of his 
eventful life. 

He left Japan with one great purpose 
— to “ get foreign knowledge ” that he 
might return to benefit his country. He 
believed that by becoming familiar with 
American institutions and ideas, and 
chiefly with the American Bible, he 
should be able to assist Japan out of the 
darkness, mental, moral and spiritual, 
which she as a nation was just beginning 
to realize. This purpose never wavered; 
this lofty aim never passed from his mind. 
In his own quaint English it was the 
“ plow on his hands ” from which he 
would not look back. 

61 



85 


NEESIMA, THE JAPANESE PATRIOT. 


During the year which elapsed before 
the “ Wild Rover ” sailed into Boston har- 
bor, Captain Taylor became much inter- 
ested in the young patriot who for the 
love he bore his country was a voluntary 
exile from it. Written years afterward in 
Neesima’s journal were these words, which 
show how cordial was the friendship of 
the sailor for the lonely lad: 

“ I fell into his kind hand at Shanghai ; 
he gave me China jacket, showing me how 
to sew; he taught me navigation; he spoke 
patiently, forgave me always, and never 
spoke to me any unkind words; he intro- 
duced me to him who became my kind 
friend ever since. At our last good-by he 
kissed me.” 

The “ kind friend ” spoken of was 
Alpheus Hardy, a merchant of Boston 
and owner of the “ Wild Rover.” He 
and his good wife determined to befriend 
the Japanese youth when Captain Taylor 
brought him to their notice. When ques- 
tioned by Mrs. Hardy he, having acquired 
only the ship’s vocabulary, could give only 
brief and unsatisfactory answers, but in a 
short time he put in writing a comprehen- 
sive sketch of his life up to that time, tell- 
ing of the thoughts, purposes and ambi- 
tions which had made him resolve to leave 
Japan. Its English is not always perfect, 
but we shall better understand the man 
and his motives for a few quotations. 

“ I was born in a house of a prince of 
Yedo. My father was writing-master of 
the prince’s house, and my grandfather 


was an officer of whole (steward). I be- 
gan to learn Japan and China, too, from 
six years age, but at eleven years age my 
mind had changed quite to learn sword- 
exercise and riding horse. At sixteen 
years age my desire was deepened to learn 
China and cast away sword-exercise and 
other things. But my prince picked me 
up to write his daily book (keep accounts), 
although it would not have been my de- 
sire. Therefore I could not get in China 
school to learn China, but I read every 
night at home. A day my comrade lent 
me an atlas (history) of United States of 
North America which was written with 
China letter by some American minister. 
I read it many times and I was wondered 
so much as my brain would melted out of 
my head, picking out President, Building, 
Free School, Poor House, and machine- 
working, etc. And I thought that a gov- 
ernor of our country must be as President 
of United States. And I murmured my- 
self that, 0 Governor of Japan! why you 
keep down us as a dog or a pig? We are 
people of Japan. If you govern us you 
must love us as your children. From that 
time I wished to learn American knowl- 
edge.” 

The “writing of the prince’s book” was 
an irksome task to the youth, and occa- 
sionally he ran away from duty to delve 
in his beloved studies. One day the 
prince discovered his absence and beat 
him soundly on his return, asking why he 
ran away. 


86 NEESIMA, THE JAPANESE PATRIOT. 


“I answered to him that I hoped to 
learn foreign knowledge and wished to 
understand it very quickly; therefore, 
though I knew I must stay here, rever- 
ence your law, my soul went to my mas- 
ter’s house to learn* and my body w r as 
obliged to go thither, too. Then he said 
to me very kindly, ‘ You can write Japan 
very well, and you can earn yourself 
enough with it. With what reason will 
you like foreign knowledge? Perhaps it 
will mistake yourself.’ I said, ‘ Why will 
it mistake myself? I guess everyone 
must take some knowledge. If a man has 
not any knowledge I will rate him as a 
dog or a pig.’ Then he laughed very 
hard about it and said to me: ‘You are 
stable boy’ (steadfast boy). Beside him 
my grandfather, parents, sisters, friends 
and neighbors beated or laughed for me 
about it. But I never took care for them 
and held my stableness very fast.” 

Sickness came to him, but his purpose 
grew stronger as his body became weak; 
his eyesight, never of the best, became 
impaired by night study, but during the 
time of enforced idleness he thought 
much of what he had read and his resolu- 
tion to get “ foreign knowledge ” never 
flagged. A visit to a friend furnished 
him with the last and greatest impulse to 
higher living. 

“ A day I visited my friend and found 
out small Holy Bible in his library. I 
lend it from him, and read it at night 
for fear savage country’s law, which if I 


read the Bible government will cross 
(crucify) whole my family. I understood 
God at first, and he separated the earth 
from firmament, made light upon the 
earth, made grass, trees, creatures, fowls, 
fishes. And he created man in his own 
image and made up a woman. After he 
made up all things of universe, he took a 
rest. That day we most call Sunday or 
Sabbath day. I understood that Jesus 
Christ was Son, and he was crossed for the 
sins of all the world; therefore we must 
call him our Savior. I must be thankful 
to God, I must believe him and I must be 
upright against him. From that time my 
mind was fulfilled to read English Bible, 
and purposed to go to Hakodate to get 
English or American teacher of it. There- 
fore I asked of my prince and my parents 
to thither, but they had not allowed to me 
for it and were alarmed at it. But my 
stableness would not destroy at their ex- 
postulations, and I kept such thoughts, 
praying only to God: Please! let me 
reach my aim.” 

The story closes with the prayer which 
he had offered daily, and an expression of 
his joy in knowing that through Mr. 
Hardy’s kindness he was about to realize 
the desire of his heart. 

“ Every night after I went to bed I 
prayed to God: Please! don’t cast me away 
into miserable condition. Please! let me 
reach my great aim. Now I know the 
ship’s owner, Mr. Hardy, may send me to 
a school, and that he will pay all my ex- 


NEESIMA, THE JAPANESE PATRIOT. 87 


penses. When I heard first these things 
from my captain my eyes were fulfilled 
with many tears, because I was very 
thankful to him, and I thought too: God 
will not forsake me.” 

Neesima was then a little more than 
eighteen years old, and when Mr. and Mrs. 
Hardy determined to undertake his edu- 
cation he was placed in the English de- 
partment of Phillips Academy at And- 
over, Mass. He was boarded by a pri- 
vate family, and a letter written by the 
mistress of the house to Mr. Hardy shows 
that true courtesy and good-breeding are 
not so much matters of education as they 
are expressions of the real heart-life. She 
says: 

“ I have no fancy or desire to take 
boarders, and should not in this instance 
except for the peculiar circumstances. 
We have made Joseph a regular member 
of the family, and he shares all its priv- 
ileges. It is not often that we find one 
who can be received in this way without a 
feeling of intrusion, but he is an excep- 
tion. We find Joseph a gentleman, and 
it is to our shame as a Christian com- 
munity that we are not more in advance 
of this ‘ heathen brought to our own door/ 
as one has said.” 

After the preparatory studies were 
mastered, he entered Amherst College, 
where his excellent scholarship was fully 
equaled by the high regard in which he 
was held by faculty and students. “ You 
cannot gild gold,” remarked one of his 


professors in speaking of him; and his 
room-mate during 1868-9 says: 

“ He was the soul of neatness, and en- 
tered lovingly into the self-imposed task 
of keeping our rooms in perfect order. 
He was also uniformly cheerful and of a 
remarkably studious spirit. Not less 
striking was his religious faith. The 
broad study-table which we used in com- 
mon was divided by an imaginary line 
upon which his Bible was laid, and night 
and morning this loved book was faith- 
fully and carefully perused.” 

His vacations were spent in different 
ways, sometimes at the home of the 
Hardys, sometimes tramping through the 
beautiful White Hills, or again quietly 
resting in the old college town. In ap- 
pearance he was rather under medium 
height, slender, and somewhat inclined to 
stoop. That he realized his deficiencies 
of physique is made ludicrously plain by a 
letter written to Mrs. Hardy, who had sent 
him a new suit of clothes. 

“ I received a package a week ago Tues- 
day. I found in it a coat, a tail-coat, a 
vest and a pair of pants. I hope you will 
excuse me that I do not take that tail- 
coat. I think I have not old enough or 
dignity enough to wear that coat. You 
must excuse me, because my chum 
laughed at me when I put on that tail- 
coat. I want clothings, but not more 
than is necessary.” 

Neesima finished his college course in 
1870, and two years later, while he was 


88 


NEESIMA, THE JAPANESE PATBIOT. 


pursuing theological studies at Andover, 
there came to this country the most im- 
portant embassy that had ever left the 
Mikado’s Empire for foreign shores. Its 
purpose was to investigate the institu- 
tions of America and Europe, preparatory 
to the adoption of “such as should seem 
best fitted to the condition of Japan, and 
calculated to place her on an equality 
with the most enlightened nations.” 
Neesima was summoned to Washington 
and requested to act as private secretary 
for the Japanese Commissioner of Educa- 
tion. In the capacity he traveled over 
this country and Europe, gaining much 
pleasure and profit by the tour; but 
through it all his resolve was unshaken, 
that sometime, through his efforts, Japan 
should know that the progress and pros- 
perity of the nations she sought to imitate 
came as a result of their being Christian 
nations, whose rule of conduct was none 
other than the Bible, the book she had 
despised and forbidden her children to 
read. These facts he brought before the 
members of the Embassy upon every pos- 
sible occasion. 

At last Neesima’s work of preparation 
was done, and the autumn of 1874 saw 
him homeward bound with the assurance 
that Christian people of America would 
provide a Christian college for Japan. 
Through ten years of exile this had been 
his day-dream, the dearest desire of his 
heart. The dream was realized, the desire 
come to full fruition. Of his subsequent 


work with its discouragements and vic- 
tories there is not space to tell in detail. 
It is sufficient to say that he accomplished 
his great aim, and to-day Japan gives 
greater honor to no man, living or dead, 
than she does to the steadfast and reso- 
lute man of high purpose, Joseph Hardy 
Neesima. 

Like Washington, he has been called 
“the father of his country,” and indeed 
New Japan owes the best that she is and 
has to this young patriot who was inspired 
to see that the “ nation whose God is the 
Lord ” is the nation most blessed and fa- 
vored. He as truly gave his life to the 
service of his country as did the great 
American, and, like Washington, he is 
now first in the hearts of his fellow-coun- 
trymen. It has been well said that 
“Neesima’s monument is not the simple 
stone- which marks the grave on the slope 
of Kyoto; it is the university on the plain 
below.” And surely there could be no 
more fitting memorial to the man whose 
whole soul went out in wish and effort to 
make his countrymen intelligent in the 
things pertaining to the higher life than 
the Doshisha, the university where gather 
the brightest minds of the nation to 
learn something of the majestic laws 
which govern the universe, and to look 
from them up to the great Law-Giver, 
who is none else but God. 



Her Field of Battle 


UT then, it is only 
once in a life-time 
that the chance 
comes to ns ordinary 
mortals, you know.” 
“ Perhaps oftener 
than we think, Molly,” came the reply. 

“ Well, there seem to be plenty of 
chances, but someway they don’t come to 
me. Of course, there is no reason why I 
should be one of the favored few. Still, 
I was just thinking how grand it would be 
to do something really worth the while. 
My life goes on in such a humdrum sort 
of a way. To-day is like yesterday, and I 
can tell just what to-morrow will be.” 

“ Perhaps you are not just in earnest 
now.” 

The white-haired minister reached out 
and placed in Molly’s hand an early spring 
flower as he spoke. 

“ This flower just now nestled in its 
warm bed of moss. To-night it will grace 
some pretty vase in your room.” 

The suggestion was so quietly made 
that for a moment the young lady did not 
feel its force. When she did she stopped 
in her walk up the steep hill-side, and 
shook her finger warningly at the kind old 


Now, Dr. Westfall, you know I never 
will he preached to like that! If you say 
I am wrong, I will give up gracefully; 
but please don’t hurt me again in such a 
way.” 

Dr. Westfall could not help smiling at 
the bright young face turned up toward 
his. Molly was a favorite with him. 
Perhaps it was because he longed so to 
help her. Not that she did not mean to 
do right always — her heart was ever 
good and kind — but she did not care to 
take life at all seriously. There was lit- 
tle in the every-day things of the world 
which touched the deeper fountains of 
her nature. She always evaded the good 
pastor when he tried to talk with her 
upon the better life. With Molly, life 
was either all sparkle and foam, or dregs. 
There was no place in her mind for any- 
thing between. She saw only the sparkle 
because she was not willing to plunge in 
where the pure water lay. 

“ You will forgive me this time, Molly. 
I only meant to show you a fallacy in 
your reasoning. It is true, there is, and 
can be, only one Clara Barton. We are 
few of us great in the sense of the word as 
you use it. Most of us belong in the 
‘ fair-to-middling ’ class. You know on 


By EDGAR L. VINCENT. 


« 



man. 


90 


HER FIELD OF BATTLE. 


the market there is a good thing, then a 
fair-to-middling, and finally a bad article. 
There is more of the medium grade. 
Your field of battle lies nearer than you 
think, Molly. Look about you for it.” 

They had wandered a little in advance 
of the rest of the party while speaking to- 
gether. Now they halted until they were 
rejoined by the other seekers after spring 
flowers. 

There was a little season of chatting, 
and then Dr. Westfall said: 

“ I am afraid that I must excuse myself 
and drive back to the city. An hour 
from now I have an engagement in my 
study. When you come home, bring me 
just a little sprig of arbutus, will you?” 

“ Oh, yes. Dr. Westfall, a whole arm- 
ful,” came from several voices at the same 
time. “ And here’s a bunch to take with 
you.” 

As she spoke Molly pinned a few stems 
of the pretty flowers on the pastor’s coat. 
“ And I shall try to find that battle-field,” 
she concluded as he turned away. 

“ Queer!” she went on a little later. 
“ The minister says there may be a battle- 
field near here. Strange place for one. 
I don’t see any sign of it.” 

An hour longer the merry party clam- 
bered about the hill-side, so eager to find 
the first blossoms of spring-time that they 
did not realize how damp the moss and 
grass were. The snow had hardly gone 
from the woods above, and here and there 
little rivulets came whispering down the 


hill, making the ground wet and soft un- 
der their feet. 

“ I do believe my shoes are wet 
through,” said Molly at last. “ I didn’t 
think we would need overshoes, and the 
result will be a cold to-morrow. Now, 
girls, see here! This is Dr. Westfall’s 
summer cottage. I believe we can get in 
and start a fire and dry our shoes a little 
before we go back. What do you say?” 

“ Do you think he would be offended?” 
one of the girls asked. 

“ Offended! No. He would want us 
to do it if he were here, and would show 
us the way in. But I remember some- 
thing about the house. You know we 
were up here last summer, and I am sure 
we can get in.” 

With Molly leading, the party walked 
over to the cottage, and entering by an 
outside door to the basement they were 
soon within. A few minutes later, a 
cheery fire roared in the wide chimney, 
and sitting around it, the young ladies 
chatted for a while, arranging their 
flowers and warming themselves. It was 
almost nightfall when they left the build- 
ing and started homeward. 

A few hours afterward, those who hap- 
pened to be on the street noticed a bright 
light far up the side of Riverside Hill. 
Watching it a little longer, they saw that 
the flames kept shooting higher and 
higher, until the sky was brilliantly 
lighted up by them. Soon an alarm of 
fire startled the city, and the department 


91 


went thundering up the street. But they 
were too late to be of service. 

As the firemen drove leisurely back, 
Molly heard one of them say to somebody 
who asked a question: 

“ Dr. Westfall’s summer cottage.” 

The words fell on Molly’s heart with 
terrible force. For a few minutes she 
could hardly breathe or think. It was 
all her fault. She had planned the en- 
trance into the cottage and led the way. 
If it had not been for her, the fire would 
not have been built in the fireplace. Prob- 
ably some sparks had been left on the 
hearth when they came away and in some 
way caught in the carpet. 

What ought she to do? It was such a 
dreadful thing; and how Dr. Westfall 
would feel when he came to know of it! 
She could not speak to anyone about it 
yet, so she walked up and down her room 
alone, wondering what course she ought 
to pursue. 

Suddenly she fell upon her knees and 
breathed a little prayer softly to herself. 
It was the first time in all her life she 
had been in such need of help, and every 
word came straight from her heart. 

When she rose she no longer questioned 
as to what she should do. Hurrying on 
her wraps, she ran over to the room of one 
of the young ladies who had been with the 
party that afternoon. 

“ Isn’t it awful!” the friend said as she 
looked into Molly’s tear-stained face. 
“ And to think how it happened!” 


Don’t, Sue; please don’t!” Molly 
pleaded. “ Put on your things and come 
with me.” 

“ Where?” 

“ To Dr. Westfall’s.” 

“ Why, what are you going to do?” 

“ Tell him just what I had to do with 
this.” 

“ Molly Gray! You can’t do that.” 

“ I can’t do anything else. Now don’t 
try to change my mind, Sue. I never 
could look that good old man in the face 
again if I should not explain it all to 
him.” 

In a short time the two sat in Dr. West- 
fall’s study. There was little in the man- 
ner of the pastor to show that anything 
unusual had happened. 

“ Have you come to bring the flowers 
you promised me?” he asked with a smile. 
“ You see I have those you gave me on my 
desk;” and he pointed to a vase standing 
before him. 

“ Oh! Dr. Westfall, it is such a different 
errand which brings us here to-night!” 
Molly broke out, sinking into an easy- 
chair. “ You know about the fire?” 

“ Oh, yes. But that is all over now.” 

Then Molly went on with her confes- 
sion, watching the face of the minister 
closely as she spoke for signs of dis- 
pleasure. She did not spare herself in 
the least, but admitted how wrongly she 
had acted in entering the cottage as she 
did, and taking all the blame upon her 
own shoulders. She watched in vain for 


HER FIELD OF BATTLE. 

a 


92 


IN THE REALM OF STALACTA . 


the displeasure, however, for in no way 
did Dr. Westfall betray any such feeling 
in look or word. Very humbly Molly told 
the story and sought the pardon of the 
pastor. 

“Do not blame yourself any more, 
please,” he said at last. 

“ And you do not refuse to pardon me, 
then?” 

“ Certainly not. It seems to me you 
should know that, Miss Gray.” 


It was pleasing to note the relief which 
came over Molly’s face at the words, and 
she thanked the pastor again and again. 

At the door the good old man said: 

“ I think you have found one battle- 
field, Miss Gray, and gained a victory. It 
was no easy thing for you to come to 
me.” 

“ But I am glad I came,” said the girl, 
with tears flashing in her eyes. “ Yes, I 
am glad I did not prove a coward.” 


In the Realm of Stalacta. 


By IDA REED SMITH. 


HERE is it? Hidden 
away under tons of 
earth, mountains of 
rock, forests of veg- 
etation. What is it? 
A world within a 
world, with lakes and rivers, hills and 
plains, where is reproduced everything 
growing under the light of the sun or 
formed by the ingenuity of man. Who is 
Stalacta? The queen of a wide domain 
whose wonders we have only just begun to 
discover; the enchantress of the under- 
world, at whose bidding the elves of earth, 
air and water create ever- varying shapes, 
beautiful or grotesque. 

It is not so very many years ago since 


the Mammoth Cave was made accessible 
to the traveler in search of the marvelous. 
Since then its fame has gone abroad until 
everyone has heard of its immense size, 
its curious stone formations — stalacites 
and stalagmites — its subterranean lakes 
and rivers, the home of queer eyeless fish, 
and the whole list of attractions which 
the enthusiastic tourist is so ready to re- 
count for the enlightenment of his less 
fortunate friends. 

But while the Kentucky giant still 
holds pre-eminence in point of size, it has 
a formidable rival in beauty and interest 
in that Virginian marvel, the Caverns of 
Luray, situated in the famous Shenan- 
doah Valley. Here is found the “lime- 



IN THE BEALM OF STALACTA. 


93 



stone formation” which Queen Stalacta 
has chosen for her own, whose compact 
mass her servants pick apart with tireless 
fingers, to weave it again into rich dra- 
peries that rival those from Indian looms, 
or lace as delicate as Italy’s most costly 
fabric. 

The making of a cave, as scientists 
have determined it, is a simple thing — 
the wearing away of rock by water con- 
taining carbonic acid. This acid is a 


cave-making it is only a case of “ robbing 
Peter to pay Paul.” The stony material 
taken from one place is deposited in an- 
other, and by this slow process — the un- 
ceasing labor of countless tiny drops of 
water, each bringing its small burden to 


faucet has eaten an unsightly hole into 
the polished marble slab beneath. But in 


sworn foe to limestone in any form, as 
the proprietor of a soda-fountain learns to 
his sorrow when the dripping from the 


94 


IN THE HEALM OF STALACTA. 


become a part of the great and beautiful 
whole — the wonderful adornment of the 
Luray Caverns has been wrought. 

In order to correctly understand what 
is meant by “ cave formations ” one must 
master two or three technical terms, and 
learn to distinguish between the twins, 
stalactite and stalagmite, and their 
cousin, helictite — which, by the way, is 
found only in Luray. The stalactite be- 
gins in a drop of water hanging upon the 
ceiling of a cave. It has brought its little 
load of lime and magnesia, and as the 
carbonic acid escapes and the water evap- 
orates the drop becomes more concen- 
trated at the base and deposits the solid 
matter it contains in a ring of tiny crys- 
tals. This ring becomes the support of 
the next drop, which in turn leaves its 
burden, and so on indefinitely, until a 
tube is formed, the diameter of the drop 
and anywhere from an inch to a yard in 
length. By this time it begins to fill up 
and the solids are deposited on the out- 
side. This formation has infinite variety. 
“ Stone cloth,” “ curtains,” “ swords,” 
etc., are made in this way. Such draperies 
are found in the Luray Caverns striped 
with every tint of brown and red, the re- 
sult of varying amounts of carbonate of 
iron in the water. 

The drop which was the beginning of 
the stalactite had to fall after a time. 
Where it struck the floor of the cave a 
stalagmite was begun, and as the succes- 
sive drops fell a sparkling white column 


rose toward its fellow suspended from the 
ceiling. Sometimes they meet in mid-air 
and form a pillar which reaches from floor 
to roof. It grows larger and larger witli 
every drop that trickles over its surface, 
and is often beautifully fluted to meet 
some dainty fancy of Stalacta, the queen 
of the under-world. 

A helictite is a growth of similar na- 
ture, but which for some unknown reason 
sets the laws of gravitation at defiance 
and grows straight out instead of up or 
down. It is a very curious phenomenon, 
and one which sadly puzzles the wise men 
of science when they try to account for it. 
In the Caverns of Luray this subterranean 
freak shows itself in a thousand fantastic 
forms. Perhaps the most curious — cer- 
tainly the prettiest — is the “ Baby's 
Hand,” which is thrust out of one of the 
stone draperies, a tiny, chubby hand, per- 
fect in outline and even in color, it being 
of a delicate, rosy flesh-tint. 

It is impossible to estimate the age of 
these caverns and their marvelous decora- 
tions. Under the drip of one of the large 
stalactites a glass tumbler has been stand- 
ing for five years, but it is covered only an 
eighth of an inch deep with the limy de- 
posit. Using this fact as a basis of reckon- 
ing, geologists have declared that it took 
millions of years to form some of the mas- 
sive pillars which reach from floor to ceil- 
ing in the vast apartment known as 
“ Giant’s Hall.” Knowing this, one can 
appreciate the feelings of an eminent man 


95 


IN THE BEALM OF STALACTA. 


who, when told that savants asserted that 
it took seven millions of years to give a 
certain column its great diameter, ex- 
claimed, “ I feel like putting my shoes 
from off my feet! This stone must cer- 
tainly be ‘ holy ground/ for none but the 
patient hand of the Almighty could have 
wrought such a wonder!” 

The tourist has every convenience for 
seeing the Caverns of Luray, for their 
seven miles of extent are supplied with 
asphalt walks and brilliantly lighted by 
electricity. The air of the cave is pure 
and wholesome, varying only from fifty- 
four to fifty-six degrees the year round, 
and being remarkably free from moisture. 
A house has been built over the entrance 
to the cave, which is reached by descend- 
ing a stairway, where one may observe 
that the roof under which he is about to 
place himself is of blue limestone thirty- 
five feet thick and seeming perfectly sub- 
stantial — a fact which affords great sat- 
isfaction when one is really amid the 
shifting shadows and strange shapes of 
the first great hall, and experiences the in- 
describable sensation of having the solid 
earth over his head as well as in its proper 
place, beneath his feet. 

It is all but useless to try to describe 
the wonderful things that abound in this 
underground fairyland. There are springs 
so clear and still that many an unbeliev- 
ing explorer has taken an unwelcome bath 
in proving his faith that the rocky basins 
were entirely dry; tiny pools whose waters 


shine through the delicate meshes of Stal- 
acta’s lace-work; and lakes, long, wide and 
deep, set in banks of snowy loveliness. 
There are columns plain and ornate, pil- 
lars massive and delicate, arches airy and 
graceful. There is a vegetable garden, 
abounding in cabbage, cauliflower, aspar- 
agus and other stalagmitic delicacies; a 
fish market, where hang rows of stalactites 
that look exactly like fish of different 
sorts — black bass, silver perch, shad, 
mackerel, etc. Their backs are dark, 
their bellies white, their tails properly 
notched, and the trickling water makes 
them look as though just fresh from the 
sea. 

Draping the “ Balcony 99 are several 
alabaster scarfs of exquisite color and tex- 
ture. Three are dazzlingly white, thir- 
teen are striped like the agate with every 
imaginable shade of brown, and all are 
translucent. In shape each is like the 
wing of a narrow lambrequin, one edge 
straight, the other meeting it in grace- 
fully curving folds. Adown the edge of 
each scarf trickles a wee rivulet that glit- 
ters like a thread of silver under the glare 
of the electric lights. This is the flying 
shuttle that weaves Queen Stalacta’s royal 
robes. 

In the “ Cathedral 99 there is a great 
organ whose pipes are long, sonorous stal- 
actites, and a little farther on are the 
“ Chimes,” a number of short stalactites 
that ring like different-toned bells under 
the guide’s skillful touch. Here and there 


96 


IN THE BEALM OF STALACTA. 


are groups of statuary — Hager bending 
grief-stricken over her famished son, 
Ishmael; Christ blessing little children; 
and a plump baby asleep with its head pil- 
lowed on a white stalagmite. 

Then there are “ Pluto’s Chasm,” 
“ Hades,” “ Tartarus,” — regions that in 
spite of their gruesome names abound in 
beauty — and “ Skeleton Gorge,” a deep 
ravine that in some time long past wit- 
nessed a tragedy. Here the first explorers 
found the skeleton of a man half im- 
bedded in rock. Some of the bones may 
still be seen, though vandal-handed tour- 
ists have chipped away the greater portion 
for relics! 

Also there is a fair-sized menagerie of 
very docile lions, camels and elephants, 
— “ Jumbo ” bearing his howdah with 
ponderous dignity — and a dragon as 
hideous as mythology could require. 
There is a pyramid of cakes — frosted 
cakes, too — that would be sadly disap- 
pointing to a boy’s sweet-tooth, no mat- 


ter how satisfying they might be to his 
eyes; a basket of fruit, a pine-apple and 
any quantity of grapes. There is a Chi- 
nese idol, serene and ugly upon its stone 
pedestal; a reproduction of Pisa’s famous 
leaning tower; a geyser of the Yellow- 
stone, stolen by Stalacta’s elves and 
frozen into glittering crystal. But time 
and space allowed by one short article for- 
bid the lengthening of this list of curios- 
ities. 

There is an end to all things, so there 
must be a termination of the wonders of 
Luray, but it is not apparent to the tourist 
who spends a day in its caverns. The 
infinite diversity and variety of persons, 
places and things represented is confus- 
ing, and it is only after the lapse of a little 
time that different objects stand out 
clearly in the memory and one is able to 
rightly appreciate the marvelous and 
unique loveliness to be seen in this por- 
tion of the wide realm of Stalacta, the 
Caverns of Luray. 



























































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